


The Hellhound Games

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Winchesters, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 12, Survival, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Team Free Will wakes up stranded in the mountains with no idea how they got there, or that the baddies of the supernatural world have had enough and are planning on making the Winchesters and their wayward angel pay for everything they’ve done. And there might as well be some bloodthirsty fun involved—such as booby traps, battle rounds…and the occasional hellhound.Let the games begin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place early season 12 after Sam is rescued from the British MoL. However, I started writing this before season 12 aired, so several details won't add up with canon. Mary isn't in this fic because I wanted to get to know her character a bit more before writing her. I'd actually written that she went off for some personal time, though I'd had her do it under way better circumstances than the show whammied us with.
> 
> Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren't mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Castiel blinked blearily at a mottled blur of blues, greens, and browns filling his vision. He felt as though he were underwater, looking up at wavelengths of light being bent and refracted. Except he was not submerged, and the distinct aroma of pine was prickling his nose.

He blinked several more times, and the splotchiness began to clear. The earthy shades sharpened into crooked tree branches splayed with leaves, a hazy cerulean sky beyond. Castiel shifted; pine needles crunched beneath him and a few twigs poked into his back. He forced himself to settle, to get his bearings before moving. Woodland sounds echoed around him: the scuttle of a squirrel up some tree bark, the buzz of a wasps' nest, the rustle of flora. It would have been soothingly tranquil if not for the fact that Castiel had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.

He tuned his senses to the cosmos to orient himself, and realized with a start that he was in the heart of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in California, which was several hundred miles away from where he last remembered being.

A groan issued from his left, and Castiel turned his head to find Dean laying face down a few feet away. The angel instantly pushed himself up, teetering precariously when his vision swam. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness and crawled over to the Winchester.

"Dean." Castiel fumbled to grasp the hunter's shoulder and shake him gently. He didn't see any injuries, which was good, because with Castiel feeling this woozy, he didn't know if his grace was stable enough to heal at the moment. But he'd worry about his own condition in a minute.

" _Dean_ ," he tried again.

Dean's brow furrowed as he let out another low moan. "Ungh." His eyelids fluttered rapidly before finally opening, and he tried to lift his head. "Cas?"

"Are you alright?"

Dean craned his head around, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Castiel kept a hand on his shoulder to help brace him.

"Yeah. Where are we?"

"The Sierras."

Dean gaped at him. " _Why_?"

"I don't know. I just woke up here." Castiel swept his gaze around the area. One thing he did know was that he had not been with the Winchesters when he apparently blacked out or whatever it was that had caused him to lose time. He squinted, trying to remember. He'd been hunting Lucifer when…he'd been attacked? It had happened quickly, maybe a figure had stepped out from hiding, and then a bright light and…nothing.

"Sam!" Dean suddenly shouted, lurching to his feet and staggering toward the base of a tree where the younger Winchester was laying half-concealed. Castiel had not even registered his presence with his brown jacket blending in with the surrounding mulch and dirt.

Dean dropped down beside his brother, who jolted into consciousness and tried to wrench away before recognition set in.

"Dean?" Sam spluttered, whipping his gaze around. "What the hell is going on?"

"No friggin' idea," Dean replied as he helped Sam sit up. "Cas says we're in the Sierras."

Sam frowned and glanced over Dean's shoulder to Castiel.

"Whoever brought you here apprehended me as well," he explained before Sam could repeat Dean's earlier question. "I don't remember much," he admitted. "What were you two doing before you woke up here?"

"Uh…" Sam gave himself a small shake as though to dispel the last of his mental fog. "We were on a case. Straight-up werewolf hunt." His brows knitted together as he looked at Dean. "We were approaching the den, right?"

"Or what we thought was a den," Dean muttered. "Seems a bit suspicious now."

"A werewolf would be an easy way to gain your attention," Castiel said. Just as a false trail for Lucifer would easily lure him, which suggested a culprit recently familiar with the Winchesters and Castiel. Unless it was Lucifer himself. But to what purpose? Why strand them in the middle of the mountains and not chain them up in some dungeon? That would certainly be more like the fugitive archangel's MO.

Castiel did a quick scan of the area, confirming it was just the three of them. He stiffened. "Where's Mary?"

Castiel knew how important it was to the brothers that they had their mother back, which put her at the top of Castiel's list of people to protect.

Dean visibly tensed. "She wasn't with us. She left on her own a few days ago, wanted some personal time or a spa weekend or something. You don't think…" He started looking around frantically.

"I'm sure if she had been taken, she would have been left here with us," Castiel assured him.

"But why are we here?" Sam asked, finally getting to his feet and turning in a half circle. He paused, and patted down his jacket before pulling out not only his handgun, but the demon-killing knife as well. Dean checked his person and found he was also still in possession of his weapons, which included a flask of holy water. Castiel's own blade was securely stowed away in the ethereal plane, but it did provide another mystery to this entire situation.

"Okay…" Dean tucked his gun back into his waistband. He pulled out his cell phone next, only to scowl and shove it back in his pocket. Castiel assumed it did not have a signal.

Dean turned to the angel. "How far away from civilization are we?"

Castiel focused on measuring the position of the stars to find their exact longitude and latitude. He frowned. "Thirty-five miles. It will take us approximately twelve to fifteen hours of nonstop walking, depending on the terrain."

If only his wings weren't broken so he could transport the Winchesters out of here. But that was an aspect of his grace that would likely never fully heal. He was as stuck as any mortal.

"Fan-frickin'-tastic," Dean grumbled. "Which way?"

"We're just gonna start walking?" Sam asked incredulously.

"You wanna wait around for whoever's behind this to show up?"

"Maybe they just want to talk."

"Then they can pop in on the way, but I'm not waiting for some dickbag to decide to screw with us more." Dean turned to Castiel expectantly.

Unfortunately, as difficult as it would be, they had little else to do about their situation. And so Castiel took the lead and turned to start heading southeast through the wilderness.

"Who do we know who's capable of doing this?" Sam asked, falling into step at the rear. "God? Maybe there's something out here he wants us to do."

Castiel couldn't help but bristle. Chuck had abandoned them too many times, including not that long ago to run off with Amara and work on 'family time.' God hadn't bothered to answer Castiel's prayers in years; if he wanted something now, he could damn well take care of it himself. Castiel had given his last by saying yes to Lucifer, and since that hadn't done anything in the end to actually help, and had only made things worse with Lucifer now being on the loose somewhere, Castiel was not inclined to try again. He would see the archangel back in his cage to clean up his own mess, but after that, he was done.

"I don't know," Dean hedged. "Chuck seemed pretty intent on taking an extended vacation. And now that we know who he is, don't you think he'd be a little more direct?"

"Okay, but it just doesn't make sense," Sam pressed. "Throwing us out here like this. Unless…maybe someone wants us out of the way for something, but doesn't want to kill us." He paused. "Crowley?"

Dean scowled. "I wouldn't put it past him, but last we heard, isn't he busy trying to reclaim Hell and hunt down Lucifer?"

"You…" Sam's voice lowered considerably. "You don't think this is Lucifer, do you?"

"No," Castiel responded. "Lucifer would be more overt in an assault."

Besides, the archangel had been laying low since Amara knocked him down a few pegs. He had neither the loyalty of angels nor reverence from demons to establish a kingdom in the wake of the Darkness's departure.

"So, then what?" Sam asked, sounding frustrated.

Castiel sympathized. He had no idea what to make of things, and it unnerved him greatly. Not so much for himself, but how could he protect the Winchesters if he didn't know what he was supposed to be guarding them from?

"The British Men of Letters?" Dean suggested after a minute. "They seem to have it in for us."

"They'd rather extract a bunch of intelligence from us," Sam pointed out. "Not send us on some weird camping trip."

Dean huffed, but fell silent. The topography was becoming more steep, and they were all focusing on navigating their way down the slope.

Castiel's thoughts turned to some of the other challenges they would be facing out here: no food, no water, and no shelter. Castiel might have been able to walk all the way out of the mountains without stopping, but it would be too hazardous for the Winchesters to try hiking at night, which meant it would take them at least two days, maybe more. And that meant that water would be a critical need. At least Dean had the flask of holy water, and Castiel could purify anything from a mountain stream to prevent the Winchesters from getting sick.

Food would be harder. Sam and Dean could go without, but it would help their energy and stamina if they didn't have to. Castiel would need to keep an eye out for edible berries and nuts.

Which left the last problem of finding shelter at night. If the weather remained fair, Castiel could at least cure chilliness and ward off hypothermia. And he would stand guard against predators while the Winchesters slept.

Yes, they would make it out of this. It would be a long and arduous journey, but Castiel would see the brothers safely returned home to their mother. Assuming there were no surprises along the way.

He should have known better than to think that.

Castiel heard the snap of twine and the whoosh of a projectile. He spun just as an arrow struck Sam in the shoulder, knocking the Winchester back a step. Sam let out a surprised gasp as he stumbled against a tree.

"Sammy!"

"Dean, don't move!" Castiel snapped.

Dean went rigid, eyes wild and desperate to reach his brother, but he held himself perfectly still, as though Castiel's voice had the power to paralyze him.

Castiel peeled his eyes against the camouflaged foliage. That shot had not come from a great distance, and he didn't hear anyone nearby. His gaze narrowed on something concealed within a bush only a few yards away. Cautious of where he stepped, Castiel moved closer and pushed the branches aside, revealing an old, frontier-style wooden crossbow mounted between two thick limbs. A trip wire ran from the trigger and down to the ground.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Dean swore under his breath, and started scanning the ground for more.

Castiel did the same, berating himself for not spotting it in the first place. He had walked through that opening first. He should have either seen it or taken the hit himself.

There didn't appear to be any more booby traps in the immediate area, so Castiel turned and finally moved toward Sam. Dean took that as his cue it was safe and rushed over as well.

Sam was leaning heavily against the tree trunk, his right hand up and clutching at his left shoulder, just underneath the wooden shaft sticking out of it. His cheeks puffed with strained breaths as he fought to keep his composure.

"Cas?" Dean said, both a question and a plea as he hovered worriedly over his brother.

Castiel did a quick assessment. Nothing vital appeared to have been hit, but the bolt had pierced deeply, though not all the way through; it had stopped when it struck Sam's shoulder blade.

"I have to take it out before I can heal you," he said.

Sam's chest heaved as he gave a shaky nod. "Do it."

Castiel flattened his palm against Sam's chest, his thumb and forefinger framing the shaft. Dean gripped his brother's other shoulder and squeezed supportively. With his other hand, Castiel wrapped his fingers around the thin piece of wood and yanked it out in one swift move. A pained yell tore from Sam's throat, and Dean ducked in to catch his weight as he sagged.

Castiel stared in dismay at the bloody, splintered shaft in his hand—the arrowhead had snapped off, and was still inside Sam's shoulder.

"Dammit," he cursed.

Dean whipped his head up. "What?" he demanded. His eyes widened when he saw the broken bolt. "But you can still heal him, right?"

Castiel gritted his teeth against the accusation and disappointment. "Not with the arrowhead still imbedded," he ground out. He may have been stronger than he'd been since running on stolen grace, but his own wasn't exactly whole when he got it back from Metatron.

Sam slid himself down the tree trunk until he was slumped on the ground. "Not like…we haven't…had to do field surgery before," he got out between pained breaths.

Castiel crouched down next to him, heart clenching at the Winchester's waning complexion. "I'm sorry… The pain won't last long," he promised. Because he had to at least be able to do that for the Winchester, since he was failing at everything else.

Sam nodded jerkily. "Let's just get it over with."

Castiel slipped his angel blade out from his sleeve, but handed it to Dean, knowing neither brother would trust anyone else for this part.

"I should get a Boy Scout badge for how many times I've had to do this," Dean quipped as he knelt down too.

Castiel frowned at him, but didn't bother asking what that was supposed to mean. He guessed by Sam's responding smirk that the jest was meant to distract Sam from what was coming. When the younger Winchester fumbled to get the buttons of his shirt undone, Castiel stepped in to help. He then tugged Sam's jacket and shirt down around his shoulder to expose the wound.

Dean angled the tip of the blade down to make an incision underneath the hole. Sam sucked in a sharp gasp as metal sliced through skin and muscle, and his leg jerked, nearly kicking Dean. Castiel grabbed Sam's knee to hold him still.

Dean finished making the cut below and above, then met his brother's eyes with a grim expression. "Here we go." He stuck his fingers into the wound.

Sam threw his head back against the tree trunk, gritting his teeth against a scream that tried to tear from his throat. Blood streamed down his chest anew, and Castiel yearned for the days when a trivial piece of lead could not impede his powers.

Dean's fingers squelched as he struggled to rotate and then dig the arrowhead out. Sam's pallor was turning ashen and he looked on the verge of passing out, which would have been a mercy if they didn't need to stay on their guard. Castiel pressed two fingers to the young man's forehead, bringing him back from the brink of shock.

"Come on," Dean muttered, and a second later he yanked his hand out, fingers and black spade of lead coated in blood.

Castiel immediately poured more healing into Sam, and in the blink of an eye, his shoulder and shirt were mended. Sam's eyes flew wide as he jerked back to full consciousness. He wildly patted his shoulder until he realized it was healed.

"Th-thanks," he said.

Castiel stood up and took a step back, giving the brothers room to assure themselves of each other's wellbeing. Sam should not have had to suffer through that, not if Castiel had pulled the bolt out properly in the first place. He needed to be more diligent.

Dean took Sam's arm and hauled him to his feet again. "Who the hell sets a booby trap all the way out here?"

Sam ran a shaky hand through his hair. "You think it's just coincidence, or was meant for us?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it," Dean said, casting a wary look around at the woods, which suddenly loomed more ominously than before.

"We should be careful moving forward," Castiel said. He did not want to imagine what other injuries the Winchesters might incur that Castiel would have difficulty healing.

* * *

Crowley pulled open the heavy oak door of the hunting lodge, purportedly closed for the season, and was immediately greeted with discordant chatter, boisterous shouts, and the clink of glasses from the bar counter. Well, well, well, this was quite the gathering. He surveyed the clientele—pagan deities, handfuls of demons, and even some vampires and werewolves high up on the pure blood chain. All arguably powerful players, gathered together in an isolated resort in the mountains. They had to be up to something. Something Crowley had evidently not warranted an invitation to. He'd only heard snippets of plotting through the grapevine, and given his precarious position in Hell after Lucifer's usurpation, he wanted to know exactly what these miscreants were up to.

Upon first glance, however, it looked little like a military coalition and more like the playtime resort it was to the humans during the winter. Drinks were being served, along with platters of delicacies ranging from Brioche Rounds and Caviar to strips of raw meat and human entrails. There was a large screen mounted to one wall, an information display system showing lists of names with numbers that fluctuated as it was updated. Right below it was a long table manned by three guys who appeared to be exchanging betting slips with people.

Crowley's curiosity was definitely piqued. How long had this place been in operation? Surely not long, as he would have heard of it before. And he couldn't imagine some bloke setting it up while the Darkness had been running around threatening to obliterate them all. Perhaps this was some kind of celebration at averting the next Apocalypse. Who was in charge, though? And why had Crowley been snubbed from attending?

He moseyed through the crowd, still cautious and keeping his eyes and ears peeled for whispers specifically about or against him. One voice rose louder than the socializing din, and Crowley veered toward it. Within one of the adjoining common rooms, he found a group gathered in front of a small platform, upon which stood a demon and a hellhound.

The demon had one hand on the hound's flank, the other under its chin to hold its head up. "Notice the perfectly toned muscles, built for speed and taking down large prey." He moved to pull the beast's lips up, revealing a row of ivory fangs. "Canines, naturally sharpened and able to rend limbs with a single bite."

The animal's red eyes lolled around at the spectators, though it did not move under its master's hold, enduring with only a snarled impatience as its handler prodded it to turn this way and that, giving everyone a good view of its sleek, inky black form and sinuous muscles.

Crowley maneuvered his way to the front, though off to the side, just enough to catch the demon's eye. Malloy faltered for a second in apparent surprise before his mouth curved upward in a grin. "Think it over, folks," he said to the crowd, and then strode over and jumped down from the platform. Without his presence, the hellhound began growling low in its throat at the spectators.

"Big Boss Man," Malloy greeted. "Been a while. How's Juliet?"

"She's fine," was Crowley's clipped reply. Though, in truth he hadn't seen his prized hellhound since Lucifer's return. Hopefully she was safely away guarding one of Crowley's crypts. He'd have to check on her.

Malloy nodded. "Good to hear. I'm afraid she was the last of Ironhide's brood. The old brute got killed by the next alpha not much after I sold you Juliet." The demon sighed, his gaze taking on a nostalgic glaze.

"Is this where you sell your stock now?" Crowley asked, casting a distasteful look around the place.

Malloy shifted his weight, demeanor changing. "Er, no. I mean, there hadn't been much call for hellhounds…um, lately. But I ain't selling to these hoi polloi. I was just asked to provide some prime specimens for the games—for a cut in the betting profits, of course."

Crowley arched a brow. "Betting on what, exactly?"

"On that." Malloy stepped toward the doorway and pointed to a television monitor mounted on the wall perpendicular to the betting screen. Crowley had dismissed it earlier as a scenery screen saver with its woodland backdrop, but now that he was looking, he spotted three familiar figures trudging through those woods.

"Betting is now closed," a loud voice announced, magically amplified to fill the entire lodge and adjoining rooms.

A figure with long black hair and Navajo features stepped forward, his presence instantly silencing the clamor. "Release the hellhound."

Malloy ducked back into the room and returned with his animal, which he led to a back door. Two ushers opened it, and Malloy smacked the beast's rear, sending it off into the woods at a mad run.

Everyone started pressing forward to watch the television monitor that showed the infamous Winchesters and the angel Castiel trekking, apparently unawares, down the mountain.

Crowley stared at the screen. "Bollocks."


	2. Chapter 2

 

Dean was so over this shit. He was tired, hot, and hungry. They'd been hiking for two hours, with no sign that they were actually getting anywhere. The terrain would descend promisingly, only to rise again later. That plus the thick overgrowth was slowing them way down, too. Who knew how long exactly it would take them to get the hell out of this place. He wanted a bed, shower, and a couple of hamburgers. Perhaps not in that order.

The one good thing was they hadn't come across anymore booby traps. That crossbow had been so old, maybe it was just some leftover relic from the Gold Rush days.

Brush crinkled as Cas made his way back to them. He'd gone ahead to scout or something, having become hyper vigilant since Sam had been shot. The angel strode through the foliage until he met them, and then opened his palm to present an assortment of pebble-size berries and a few nuts whose shells looked too hard to pry open by hand.

"These are edible."

Dean stared at them blankly. "Uh, no thanks."

"Dean," Cas said in clear exasperation. "You and Sam need sustenance."

"That ain't sustenance. Sam can eat the rabbit food; I'll eat the rabbit."

Sam snorted beside him, and held out his hands to accept the slim pickings. "Thanks, Cas."

Cas's brow furrowed as he passed the nuts and berries to Sam, and for crying out loud, the angel looked as though he was seriously trying to figure out how to get Dean a stupid rabbit.

"You might have a better shot at shooting small game," Cas began. "But we would have to wait until we stopped at night to cook it, or we would lose precious time."

Dean ran a hand down his face wearily. He did not want to spend an entire night out here, but realistically they had no choice. If Cas's estimation of distance was accurate—and of course it was—they weren't making it out of these mountains until the next day. Maybe the one after. And that just soured his mood more.

"Alright," he sighed. "Let me know if you sense Thumper anywhere."

Cas quirked a confused brow, but Dean picked up his pace again before the angel could point out that he didn't understand that reference. Guess there were some things Metatron neglected to download into Cas's brain.

They kept trudging along, climbing over fallen pines and around large rock formations. Dean stepped on a hollow log and his foot crashed through a rotted out section, which sent a skunk scampering out the other side. At least he hadn't gotten sprayed. He spotted other wildlife here and there—a raccoon and a porcupine, neither of which were very appetizing to try shooting at. He'd also seen a bear, but it'd been across a gully, and it and Cas had merely held a staring contest for a few moments before they continued on their way.

Then a sound pierced the air that made Dean freeze in his tracks and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Maybe it was just his imagination warping what he'd actually heard, because there was no way that all the way out here…

"Is that what I think it is?" Sam asked in alarm.

They both turned to Cas, who was standing rigid, eyes wide as he gazed past them through the tightly woven trees. _Don't say it, don't you dare say it…_

The howl went up again, sending chills slithering down Dean's spine.

Cas surged forward to grab his arm and yank him roughly. "Run!"

Adrenaline flooded Dean's system, and he burst into a mad dash, no longer worried about trip wires or exposed roots, only the unearthly baying that signaled a hound had caught a scent. A _hellhound_. So someone had brought them all the way out here to die after all.

Trees whipped by him in a blur, twigs catching in his clothes like claws trying to snare and hold him still for the hound to snatch. He barely felt the stings of them scoring across his face as he barreled through them. Panic made his heart jackhammer in his chest, which made it difficult to breathe. Where was he even trying to go? They'd never outrun the beast from the Pit.

Cas came to a sudden stop up ahead, and Dean nearly collided into his back. The angel lashed out a hand to grab him before he could trip, and then Cas was shoving him toward a tree.

"Climb!"

Dean didn't even think about it, but scrambled to find purchase in the bark so he could reach the branches above. Cas grabbed the back of his jacket with one hand and his knee with the other, practically launching him into the air with angelic strength like a half-assed acrobat. Dean's chest struck a limb, and he flailed his arms to catch himself before he could slide back down. His boots skidded across the bark as he managed to haul himself all the way up.

The next howl was much closer, its bloodcurdling cry filling Dean's ears as though it echoed from everywhere around him. His erratic heart threatened to leap up out of his throat.

Cas cupped his hands and gave Sam a boost up next. Being taller, the younger Winchester was able to reach the branches more easily, and then he was safely several feet above the ground as well. Somewhere in the back of his rational mind, Dean wondered if it would matter. Hellhounds wouldn't give up so easily.

"Cas!" Sam shouted, laying flat across the branch and stretching down to help Cas up last.

Cas didn't take his hand, though, but instead turned to face the woods behind them. His angel blade dropped from his sleeve into his hand.

"Cas, no!" Sam sputtered.

Dean couldn't find the capacity to speak. Up ahead, he heard the telltale sounds of crashing twigs and branches as a massive brute of a beast came barreling toward them. Though he couldn't see the hellhound, he saw the trail of leaves being kicked up in its wake as it charged straight toward Cas.

The angel spun away at the last possible second, slashing with his celestial blade. A savage snarl sounded from right beneath the Winchesters as a spurt of viscous black blood shot through the air and splattered across some leaves. Cas re-centered himself, blade dripping with oily unguent. Hot breath puffed from the invisible predator, and the snapping of jaws was the only warning before Cas thrust his blade forward.

There was a high-pitched yelp, but Cas fell backward and hit the dirt. He stabbed again—the hellhound had to be right on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

More inky blood sprayed across the ground, followed by a pained yowl, but then three red slashes scored down Cas's chest, misting the air with crimson. Cas threw his head back and screamed.

Dean frantically tried to pull out his gun without losing his precarious balance. But when he took aim, he hesitated, not wanting to hit Cas.

The angel thrust his arm up in a defensive move, and then screamed again. Dean saw red blood and black goo suddenly seeping through the trench coat's sleeve. The hellhound had sunk its teeth into Cas, and apparently wasn't letting go. Cas's body jerked suddenly, as though something were shaking him by the arm. Dean couldn't afford not to act.

He took aim and fired. Sam's own gun echoed a split second after Dean's, filling the forest with firecrackers. More dark blood burst out from the invisible beast, spurting like fountains and making the creature easier to spot. Cas rolled over, signaling the hound had released him.

Dean leveled his gun and fired again, the crack of the gunshots echoing like thunder. The hellhound yelped with each hit, its leaking body swaying several steps before there was a thud and depression in the mulch-covered ground. Dean held his fire, waiting with bated breath as he watched several pools of ichor spreading out across the ground. But the beast was still chuffing out pained exhales.

Cas gripped his angel blade and crawled forward. Dean tensed, ready to shoot again. Pushing himself shakily to his knees, Cas raised the blade above his head, and then plunged it straight down. There was an audible hitch of breath, and then one last wheeze as the hellhound finally bit the dust.

Cas twisted the blade before yanking it out, and the woods were silent once more, save for Dean's own blood roaring in his ears.

Sam jumped out of the tree first, hitting the ground with a grunt and then sprinting toward Cas just as the angel started to list sideways. Dean scrambled after his brother, pushing off the branch and bending his knees to take the brunt of the impact when he landed. His ankle nearly gave out, and he cursed at how close he'd come to twisting it, but was then lumbering forward.

Sam had his arms around Cas's shoulders, holding the angel up as he sagged completely. Blood was everywhere, both red and black, staining the ground and Cas's clothes. There were three gashes across his chest that were still bleeding, and several jagged puncture wounds in his left arm.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean uttered as he shrugged out of his jacket first, then his flannel shirt, wadding up the second to press against the claw marks. Cas jerked and sucked in a sharp gasp. "Easy, easy."

Cas's breaths were coming shakily. "We…need to…move."

Dean stiffened, and started whipping his gaze around. "You sense more out there?" If that was the case, they were dead. Hell, they were screwed anyway, cut off from civilization, from resources, weapons, and safe houses. Cas was bleeding all over the ground in ways angels weren't meant to bleed, and whoever had brought them all the way out here must have sent that hellhound after them too.

Though, if Dean could push aside his mounting terror for just a second, he might wonder why anyone would go to that kind of trouble. A hellhound could just as easily hunt them down in the city as way out here.

Cas gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Not yet."

Dean allowed himself to relax just a fraction. "Then we can spare a minute for you to heal." Or several. Dean lifted the compress he'd made of his shirt to look at the slash marks, and then quickly pressed down again when it was clear the bleeding hadn't been staunched yet.

"Cas," Sam spoke up worriedly. "How bad are hellhound wounds on an angel?"

Cas seemed to be focused on breathing for the next few seconds, so Dean didn't call him out on putting off his reply. The obvious answer was _bad_ , because Cas's complexion was turning sickly grey and he was practically trembling.

"I'll survive…" he finally started to respond. "But…"

"But _what_?" Dean demanded.

"The bite…" Cas averted his gaze. "Hellhound saliva is poisonous to angels."

Both Dean and Sam immediately jerked straighter in alarm, exclaiming, " _What_?"

"It needs to work its way…out of my system." Cas sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut against what looked like a wave of pain.

"What do we do?" Sam asked desperately.

"Wait." Cas shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm slowing you down."

Dean ignored the implication behind the way Cas said that, and focused on their immediate needs. First, they had to find shelter, somewhere away from all this blood, which might attract other predators in addition to hellhounds. If Cas wasn't healing like normal, they'd have to tend those wounds, which meant needing a water source as well.

_Would you like fries with that?_

Dean shook his head, and quickly slipped his jacket back on. "Okay, can you walk?"

Cas nodded resolutely, and Dean had to hope the angel's sheer will would be enough.

It usually was.

Dean gingerly moved Cas's injured arm so it was tucked tightly against his own chest, holding Dean's shirt over the gashes there. Then Dean slipped one arm under Cas's back while Sam took the angel's other arm, and together they hauled him to his feet. Cas immediately stumbled, but they managed to keep him upright, and the Winchesters started tugging him away from the brutal scene and invisible carcass.

Dean had never been much of the praying type, and even though Chuck was supposedly gone far, far away out of radio range, Dean found himself praying that they'd find shelter soon. It was probably too much to ask for a ride out of there.

Cas's steps were growing heavier, and Dean kept having to readjust his grip to keep the angel from completely sliding to the ground. Finally, though, they came across a large rock formation that had a small overhang and a cranny wedged underneath, enough to provide cover over their heads and some concealment. Not that such things mattered against hellhounds. But maybe it would be just the one…

Experience had taught Dean to know better, but he shoved his fear and defeatism aside; as long as Sam and Cas were counting on him, he was gonna fight to his last, even against insurmountable odds.

At least these craggy boulders weren't an actual cave; they didn't need to add bears to their list of shitty encounters on this whacked-out camping trip.

"Here we go," Dean said as he and Sam half-dragged Cas to the back of the nook where they eased him down onto the ground. Cas immediately went boneless, head lolling limply to the side, eyes closed.

Dean's heart rate spiked. "Cas?"

Sam quickly slipped two fingers under Cas's jaw, mouth pressed into a grim line for a long moment. "He's got a pulse."

Guess that was something. Dean pried the angel's bloody shirt back to get a look at the claw marks, and let out a relieved sigh. "Looks like those stopped bleeding." He reached for Cas's injured arm next. The flesh around the bite wounds was inflamed and swollen, with bright red lines starting to streak through his veins.

"Dammit," Dean muttered. No matter what Cas said about just needing time, the word _poison_ wasn't something to be taken lightly.

A muscle in Sam's jaw ticked as he took in the wounds. "I'll take a quick look around for water."

"Be careful," Dean said.

Sam stood up and strode around the perimeter of the rock formation, leaving Dean alone with only the sounds of a woodpecker somewhere in the trees above, and Cas's shallow breaths wheezing past his lips.

"You'd better not die," Dean told him quietly.

Several minutes went by in which he started worrying about Sam, but then his brother finally came weaving back around the foliage, a platter-size chunk of tree bark in his hands.

"Found a small stream just a couple yards that way," he said. "Took me a bit to find some way to transport the water, though."

Dean lifted his brows at the hollowed out shell of wood Sam had turned into a bowl. He'd take it.

Sam carefully set it down next to Cas, some of the water sloshing out as it teetered on the uneven ground. Then he picked up Dean's bloodstained t-shirt. "I'll go rinse this out, then I guess we can use it to clean him up…?"

Dean nodded. It was the only thing they had to work with. He surveyed the rest of their articles of clothing, debating whether something would have to be cut up for bandages. Maybe Cas's trench coat, though Dean was reluctant to use that. Maybe they could just clean the wounds and leave them for now. After all, Cas said he'd heal eventually.

Sam returned, Dean's shirt now a sopping rag in his hand. The blood hadn't washed out completely, which made it easier for Dean to resign himself to ripping the piece of clothing in half. Then he and Sam set to wiping the blood from Cas's person, both his own and what belonged to the hellhound. Dean figured the last thing the angel needed was getting that filthy refuse into his bloodstream. They also tried to flush the bite wounds a little, but it was difficult and they were deep.

Once they'd cleaned Cas up as best they could, they rinsed out the rags and dumped the soiled water. Cas hadn't regained consciousness at all through the ministrations, and Dean kept checking every few minutes to make sure he was still breathing. And wasn't that weird, because since when were angels supposed to breathe?

Dean looked up to meet his little brother's frightened gaze, which mirrored Dean's own dread. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

And try to stay alive.

* * *

The lodge was in an uproar, various entities shouting over each other in frustration about the wagers they'd lost. From what Crowley could gather, the betting parameters laid down had to be specific—which target the hound would take down first; would the hound maim or kill one of them; which one of the infuriating trio would be the one to slay the beast; etc. So many variables left plenty of room for people to lose, and Crowley had to mentally scoff at the buffoons for taking such odds.

He turned toward Malloy, who was standing in the corner and gaping at the screen, which was still focused on the dead hellhound, a shellshocked look on his face.

"Thánatos," the demon murmured, then seethed, "Those bloody Winchesters."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I could have told you sending one hellhound after those three was a bad idea. They're wily ones. Especially with the angel in tow."

Malloy balled his hands into fists. "It's not my decision how many to send in."

Crowley arched an intrigued brow. "And whose is it?"

Malloy lifted his chin and nodded toward the center of the room where a large hearth was, just as the Native American figure who'd heralded the start of the "game" took the floor again.

"Calm down, gents and imps. This is only just the beginning. What fun would it be if the first attempt took out our dashing heroes?"

The way he said "heroes" was far from reverent.

"These games are meant to last," he continued, and Crowley was finally able to sense the power signature radiating from him. The pagan deity, Coyote. Lovely. "The hellhound knocked the angel down a peg, so now if there is anyone who would like to enter the arena themselves, the payout will be double."

Murmurs raced through the crowd.

"But if not," Coyote added. "We could always send in another hellhound." With that, he slipped away to leave his guests a few minutes to think it over.

Malloy hung his head. "I shoulda known better. But the price was too good."

"How many hellhounds did you consign to this?" Crowley asked out of curiosity.

"As many as he wants."

Crowley sighed. Hadn't he taught his subjects better deal-making strategy than that? Malloy deserved this pickle.

"Are you joking?" a high-pitched, heavily accented voice rose up above the din, making Crowley's hair stand on end. Could this day get any worse?

He slowly turned to scan the room, and spotted the familiar locks of stark red hair up at the betting counter. "Bloody hell," he muttered, and started making his way over.

"Re-watch the footage, you buffoon! The hellhound clearly took down the angel."

The cretin on the other side of the counter gave her a bored look. "The hellhound is dead; the angel is not. Ergo, no earnings."

Rowena's cheeks puffed. "I didn't bet on whether they lived or died. I bet on whether the hound took down the angel, which it did!"

"The angel was the last one standing," the bookie replied, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "Them's the rules. You want to place another bet, go ahead."

Rowena's shoulders were shaking with rage. "Do you know who I am?" she nearly shrieked.

The guy rolled his eyes, stood up, and walked away. Rowena sputtered.

Crowley took that moment to come up behind her. "Mother, what are you doing?"

She whirled, eyes going wide for a split second before she mustered a semblance of calm and smoothed down her burgundy dress. "Hello, Fergus. Fancy seeing you here. I wouldn't have thought this event to your tastes."

"I do love a good fox hunt," he replied blithely. "How did _you_ warrant admittance?"

Rowena lifted her chin. "I've made quite a name for myself in recent months, I'll have you know. Helping to defeat the Darkness everyone was so terrified of has put me up there with the elite. Why, there are witches from all over now begging to join my Mega Coven."

"Spare me," Crowley drawled. He cast an unimpressed glance around the lodge. "So this is what you're doing now? Making losing bets on puppies and dented halos?"

Rowena glowered at him. "A lot went into this rather prestigious event. My only complaint is that you weren't included in the game pool, given your disgusting affinity for the Winchesters." She paused, smoothing her expression. "Perhaps I could make a special request."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Don't forget, Mother, how every attempt of yours to strike at me has failed." He drew his shoulders back. "Besides, I have my own hellhounds."

Rowena's face puckered into a pouting moue, and she spun on her heel to storm away.

Crowley lifted his gaze to the television monitor, paused for the moment on the hellhound carcass. The Winchesters and Castiel couldn't have gone far; they'd be found easily enough when the next round began.

He didn't know whether to be disappointed or glad the hellhound had failed to kill one of them. He wasn't _surprised_. Those three had a knack for surviving anything, and certainly for not staying dead. Which was why Crowley wasn't overly concerned about Castiel getting torn up a bit. But he was left with an odd dilemma—did he intervene on the trio's behalf, or sit back and watch things play out? Maybe place a bet or two of his own.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Sam picked up another branch and added it to his armful, tucking it under his chin to keep from dropping everything he'd spent the past twenty minutes gathering. It would be dark soon, and he wanted to have enough kindling stockpiled to get them through the night. Lighting a fire may have been inadvisable, given another hellhound might be out there, but realistically, if that was the case, it wouldn't matter either way. Better to keep warm and on guard while Cas was out of commission.

A gloaming twilight was settling over the treetops by the time Sam returned to the rock formation they'd taken temporary shelter under. He slowed to a stop when he spotted Dean leaning over Cas, the back of his hand set intently against the angel's forehead, mouth pressed in a tight line.

Dean glanced over. "He's burning up."

Sam quickly deposited his load on the ground and crouched down beside them. He didn't have to check for himself; Cas's brow was glistening, his hair damp, and tremors were running through his muscles.

"Think he was lying about this not killing him?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam subtly reached out to press two fingers against Cas's wrist. The pulse was a little fast, but not stuttering. He could feel the heat radiating up from the angel, though.

"It's probably just burning out of his system, like he said." Sam pursed his mouth in thought. "How much holy water do you have?"

"Almost a full flask." Dean paused, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Maybe it would help work against the venom," he suggested, then shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "At the very least we should try to keep him hydrated."

The muscle in Dean's jaw tightened. "Holy water is like acid to demons, and he's got _demonic_ saliva in his blood." He started shaking his head. "I've seen what that shit does from the inside. It'd be torture."

Sam frowned. When had…? He brushed that question off for another time. "He's already in pain," Sam argued, glancing down again at Cas, who was beginning to twitch in his febrile state. "How do you think his grace is reacting with the stuff? That's probably what's causing the fever. And yeah, I'm not thrilled about the idea of hurting him more, but what if helps?"

Dean looked away, obviously still resistant to the idea.

"We'll give him a little at a time," Sam gently pressed. He slipped his jacket off and wadded it up, then tucked it under Cas's head, hoping to provide a little cushion against the hard ground.

Dean looked back at the angel as Cas moaned. "Alright," he finally relented, and pulled the flask out. He uncapped it, but then held it out to Sam. "Take some first. We don't need either of us getting dehydrated on top of everything."

Sam took the flask and knocked back a swig. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was, and after a split second of indecision, took one more small sip before passing it back to Dean, who also took a drag. If only they had something they could boil water in. A stream was literally a few feet away, but they were still going to run dangerously low on drinkable fluids.

Dean scooted closer to Cas, and Sam gingerly lifted the angel's head while Dean tipped the bottle neck of the flask to Cas's chapped lips. He was intensely careful with how much holy water he let trickle out. Cas coughed slightly, but managed to swallow it. Then the two Winchesters held their breaths as they waited for a reaction. Sam wasn't entirely sure what to expect, though he could imagine. Dean, however, was coiled tightly, a haunted look in his eyes that Sam hadn't seen since his brother bore the Mark…or when he'd first come back from Hell.

When nothing happened after a few moments, Sam suggested giving Cas a little more. Dean shook his head.

"It's getting dark. We should light a fire first."

Sam knew Dean was just worried, but he was also right; the last of the light of dusk was quickly waning, and the temperature had dropped significantly. A chill wormed its way past Sam's flannel shirt, making him shiver. He wasn't taking his jacket back, though. Besides, Dean had already lost one of his layers and had to be just as cold.

Sam gently laid Cas's head back down, and then got up to get that fire going. He grabbed some rocks that were lying around and made a circle a few feet from where Cas lay. The angel may have been overly warm now, but that could change rapidly. After setting the stones, Sam filled the circle with dry leaves, and then started erecting the smaller sticks on top.

"We'd probably never be able to enjoy real camping, would we?" he mused out loud.

Dean looked over with a quirked brow. "What?"

Sam clicked his lighter on (thank goodness for that in his pocket), and held the flame to the bottom of the fire pit. "I mean, we know how to survive in the woods like this, but it wasn't because of Boy Scouts or Dad taking us camping."

"We've been camping with Dad plenty of times on hunts."

Sam shook his head in wry amusement. "That's my point. We packed gear consisting of guns and blow torches for hunting wendigos, not fishing poles or cheap disposable cameras."

He watched the tiny flame devour the dry leaves, curling them into blackened wads. The ember died down to simmer at the base, and Sam waited for it to catch on the wood.

"Of course you have to pack those things," Dean replied. "You never know when you might need them. And given our luck…" He snorted, then gave himself a small shake. "Dad taught us how to survive. Like you said. You, me, and Cas are gonna get through this because of that."

Sam rocked back on his haunches as the fire finally caught, bright orange tendrils snaking up the sticks to cast a soft halo over their campsite. "I know, Dean. I'm…grateful, we know what to do." He flicked his eyes toward the unconscious angel. "It just sours the idea of ever doing something…different. Something normal. I mean, what if Mom likes camping?"

Dean apparently didn't have a response to that, and they fell silent. Sam wasn't trying to be belligerent, but the fact that they were hunters had been a point of contention with their newly resurrected mother. Mary had joined them on a few cases after rescuing Sam from Toni Bevell, but was it that she couldn't escape being a hunter, as few could? Or that her own sons were to blame for dragging her back into that world, rather than giving her the second chance at a normal life she deserved?

Sam pushed those thoughts aside for now. The nocturnal sounds of the forest started filling the night; crickets and owls were nothing to be leery of, but the lone cry of a moose somewhere in the darkness was a little unnerving. Sam tried to reassure himself that as long as those noises were out there, it meant a hellhound wasn't.

Though he hoped they wouldn't have to worry about other, more mundane predators as well.

"Got any of those nuts left?" Dean spoke up a little bit later, begrudgingly.

The urge to tease him sprung to Sam's lips, but in actuality he was too tired to come up with a coherent jab. He wordlessly reached into his pocket for the bits Cas had foraged. There were only five nuts left, hardly enough to fill either of their stomachs, but since Sam had munched on some earlier, he handed the rest over.

"Want me to go hunt something?" Sam offered, perhaps only half-jokingly.

Dean shook his head, nose wrinkling at the paltry snack. "Let's just stick close for the night."

While Dean nibbled on the scant nutrients, Sam picked up the flask again and scooted closer to Cas to give him more water. Cas flinched away when Sam touched him.

"No," he mumbled, brow creasing.

"Cas, it's me," Sam said, moving his hand to squeeze the angel's shoulder. "You awake?"

Cas tossed his head fitfully, the sheen of sweat on his face glistening in the firelight. "Sam, no." He let out a pitiful moan. "Lucifer…"

Sam's stomach clenched. Of all the feverish dreams Cas could have been trapped in, it had to be of the sadistic archangel who had possessed him for half of the past year. And Sam had a pretty good idea what those nightmares entailed.

"Shh, Cas, it's okay," he tried to soothe. "You're safe."

Well, not safe, but not in Lucifer's clutches.

"Please," Cas croaked brokenly. "Not Sam."

Dean shot to his feet abruptly, and went around to the opposite side of the fire to stoke it.

"It's not your fault, Dean. Giving him the holy water didn't cause this." Sam lifted Cas's head a fraction to dribble a little from the flask into his mouth. At the temperature he was burning at, he'd deplete his body's fluids sooner rather than later, and Sam didn't know how that would affect his rate of healing.

"I know that," Dean replied roughly. He glanced over the flames at them before looking away again. "It's like you when the wall was gone."

Sam's chest tightened. He didn't like thinking about that time in his life, and the fact that Lucifer was running around somewhere, out in the world and not just in his head…that twisted Sam's stomach into knots. Being trapped in the Cage with the Devil had been terrifying, but there was a certain strength Sam had found in single-handedly standing up to Lucifer. Out here, though, he had way more to lose.

Really not wanting to dwell on that either, Sam busied himself with checking Cas's wounds. The gashes on his chest were no better, but no worse. The bite marks, however, were turning purple, and the red streaks were clawing further up Cas's forearm and around his elbow like vermillion hooks of barbed wire.

Sam bit his bottom lip as he considered the flask of holy water. Tentatively, he tipped it over Cas's arm, letting a little splash over the wounds. There was an instant hiss and sizzle, and Cas jerked violently with a strangled cry, nearly knocking the flask out of Sam's hand. Sam threw his other hand out to hold him down.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Dean snapped, leaping back over and dropping down next to the angel to grip Cas's shoulder and knee as he bucked.

"I'm just trying to do _something_ to help!" Sam retorted defensively. He wasn't trying to hurt Cas, dammit. But their friend was suffering, and if there was anything they could do to not prolong it, even if that meant increasing his pain momentarily, then didn't they have to try?

Dean shot him a dark glower before turning back to Cas and waiting for the spasm to pass. Sam felt as though he'd just been accused of kicking a puppy, which wasn't fair. He _was_ just trying to help.

He wanted to give Cas another drink, but thought Dean might bite his head off, and so he refrained from doing anything except gazing balefully at the poisoned wounds. The truth was he was beginning to doubt Cas's claim that he'd be okay. Cas had a way of downplaying things like that when it came to his own personal well-being.

Yet the more Sam stared at the inflamed arm, the more it seemed his eyes were starting to play tricks on him. The puncture wounds' purplish-black hue seemed less dark, as did the red of the blood poisoning.

"Dean," he whispered, not trusting himself.

Dean flicked an irritated glance at him, then down. He was silent for a long moment.

"Tell me you see that," Sam said, desperation and hope warring within him.

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. He turned his gaze back to Cas's face, which was still pinched in pain, both physical and mental. Dean's jaw visibly clenched. "Go ahead and use more," he said gruffly.

Now it was Sam's turn to be hesitant, only because he knew what was coming. But just like with popping a dislocated shoulder back in place, this had to be done if Cas was gonna beat the hellhound poison. Sam took in a deep breath, and dribbled more holy water out over the wounds.

Dean practically threw himself over Cas as the angel's back arched. The sizzling steam wafting up from the wounds made Sam's gorge rise in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down and grabbed Cas's other side, bracing him through the thrashing.

"Easy, easy," Dean was saying, voice strained and barely audible over Cas's choked cries. "You're okay, you're okay. It's gonna be okay."

Sam squeezed Cas's shoulder in a vice-like grip until the angel finally settled again. His breaths were much more labored than before, but upon further inspection of the bite wounds, the Winchesters found that the bright red streaks had faded some more. It was working.

Dean pushed himself to his feet. "I'm gonna get more water. He's still running too hot."

Sam didn't say anything as his brother snatched up the half-domed piece of wood and strode away into the darkness. He held up the flask and shook it slightly, trying to gauge how much was left. Maybe a third. It was maddening how much they needed to make that little bit of water supply their various needs—thirst, angelic-grade antidote. They might be able to let Cas drink the mountain stream; even injured, he didn't seem vulnerable to things like human disease, so maybe the risk of microorganisms in the water wouldn't affect him.

Sam sighed as he set the flask aside and rested a hand on Cas's forehead. It was burning, and Cas turned into the touch as though Sam's palm was an offering of arctic sleet.

"Hang in there," he murmured.

A twig snapped, and Sam glanced over his shoulder to ask Dean to put another log on the fire, but his brother wasn't there. It took him another split moment to realize that the woods had fallen silent.

Sam stiffened, instantly on guard. There hadn't been a howl to herald the hounds of Hell catching a scent, so maybe it was something more natural, like a wolf or bear. He didn't move a muscle, listening as hard as he could over the subtle crackle and pop of the fire.

" _Dean_?" he hissed.

Nothing moved except the writhing shadows skittering across trees and bushes, casting their darkened silhouettes into towering figures with claws. Sam caught movement in his peripheral vision, and he snapped his head toward it, hoping it was just Dean coming back from the stream.

But the lumbering shape was moving from the wrong direction, and as it neared the edge of the illuminated campsite, it separated into two. Sam leaped to his feet, planting himself between Cas and the figures that sauntered out from the woods. These guys weren't hellhounds, but their eyes gleamed with predatory intent. One cracked its mouth in a minacious grin, and a row of jagged teeth flashed in the firelight.

Sam's pulse spiked. What the hell were vampires doing all the way out here? Not that Sam was given a chance to ask. In the next moment, the vampires charged. Aware of Cas lying helpless behind him, Sam did the only thing he could—he met them head-on.

He collided with the first vamp, the impact of opposing forces knocking them both off balance, and they fell in a tangled mesh. Sam twisted mid-air so that the vampire landed in the fire. Flames licked at Sam's face and hands, and he frantically rolled aside while the vamp's screams pierced the night. The second tackled Sam before he could fully regain his feet; he went crashing to the ground with enough force to punch the air from his lungs.

A gaping maw loomed over him, fangs bearing down toward his neck. Then a sharp crack echoed against the surrounding rocks, and the vampire jerked back. Sam scrambled to his feet in time to see Dean storming into the fray. The older Winchester quickly stashed his gun in favor of drawing his angel blade, and lunged at the first vamp who had just finished extinguishing the flames that had caught on his clothes.

Sam whipped out the demon-killing knife, not meant for fighting vamps, but the closest weapon he had he might use to decapitate one. He swiped at the second monster coming at him again. It danced away with a snarl, spittle flying from its mouth. The knife's blade was too short.

The vampire stalked around Sam, working his way closer to Cas, which Sam was so not having. He half-turned and yanked a flaming branch from the fire, brandishing it at the vampire. The monster tried to dodge, but Sam pressed forward and whacked him across the back, propelling him to the ground. There was something about vampires that made them easily flammable, and the fire eagerly leaped from the wood to the monster's flesh. Sam struck him again and again, hoping to at least keep him down until Dean could come use the angel blade.

Speaking of which, Sam threw a quick glance at his brother. Dean was wrestling with the other vamp, the angel blade trapped in an arm lock. Sam spun around and clobbered that vampire across the back. The charred wood shattered on impact, showering him in scorching embers.

He shrieked and flailed, releasing Dean in order to brush them off. Dean followed through with a swift slice of the angel blade that liberated the vamp's head from its body. Then both brothers were turning to the remaining assailant, who let out an enraged bellow and charged.

Sam threw his shoulder into the vampire's chest, using the creature's own momentum to propel him up and over his head. Dean was waiting with the angel blade, and swung down like an axe through flesh and spinal cord. The vamp's body fell limp.

Sam jerked his head up to scan the woods, but there were no sounds to signal more attackers. He waited a beat before his adrenaline finally started to peter out, leaving him harried and exhausted.

"What the hell," Dean started, kicking the vamp's corpse. "First a hellhound and now vampires? All the way out here?"

"Don't forget the crossbow," Sam muttered, instinctively rubbing his shoulder, even though Cas had fully healed it. "Doesn't seem so random, does it?"

"Someone's screwing with us," Dean agreed.

Sam clenched his jaw. He was liking their situation less and less.

"Cas okay?" Dean asked.

Sam glanced at the still unconscious angel. "Yeah, they didn't get near him."

Dean nodded, then turned back to the bodies. "Let's burn these."

They threw the heads into the fire ring first, which gave the flames a burst of fuel that ignited the rocky formation with brighter illumination. They dragged the bodies over next, and Dean did his best to sever some of the limbs with the angel blade, but it wasn't really made for that, and they ended up just setting the corpses on fire in a pile. Sam grabbed some more rocks to set around them to at least prevent the flames from spreading.

"Need to go back and get water again," Dean said gruffly before striding off.

Sam tried not to be nervous about his brother leaving again, and he spent the next few minutes poised tensely with eyes and ears peeled against the darkness. Even the nocturnal calls of wildlife didn't assuage his fears.

But Dean returned quickly and settled down next to Cas with the fresh water in the curved piece of wood. "I'll take first watch."

Sam didn't bother protesting, as it really didn't matter. He laid down perpendicular to his brother and the angel, pillowing his head in his arm. A decapitated head was looking out from the fire at him, so he shifted slightly, angling his body toward the warmth but his face the other direction. There was still a chill at his back, but it wasn't like Sam wasn't used to roughing it.

Yeah, he really wanted to take his mom on a trip that could end up like this.

Exhaustion crept over him, and Sam watched Dean soak patches of his torn up shirt in water and wipe Cas's forehead until he finally drifted off.

His turn at watch came too quickly when he felt Dean nudging him awake. But he rose without complaint and switched places with his brother. Dean slept with his back to the fire.

Sam took up soaking and wringing out the tattered strips of Dean's flannel and laying them across Cas's brow. The angel was still restless with fever, but at least didn't seem delirious anymore.

A couple of hours before dawn, his fever finally broke, and Cas let out a groan that sounded more like waking than unconscious pain.

"Hey, Cas," Sam whispered, leaning closer. "You with me?"

Cas blinked blearily at him. "Yes," he rasped in an equally quiet voice. He craned his head around until he spotted Dean, and then visibly relaxed. "What day is it?"

"You were hurt yesterday."

Cas's brow furrowed. "Oh. I thought…it might have been longer."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. "We, uh, used some holy water on the wound. It helped."

Cas tried to lift his head to look at his arm, but winced and dropped it back on Sam's jacket. "That was…" he wheezed. "Clever."

"That's one word for it," Sam muttered.

Cas looked up and met his gaze as though reading everything Sam wasn't saying. "Don't regret the necessity of that," he finally said, sounding bone-tired.

"I do," Sam replied. "But I'm glad it worked. Will drinking some help? There's still a little left."

Cas shook his head, mussing his damp hair. "Save it for you and Dean."

"We've taken our rations."

Cas tried to protest again, but was still too weak to put up much resistance. Sam uncapped the flask and lifted it to his lips, whether Cas liked it or not. And his body must have been parched, because Cas was suddenly gulping down a swallow despite his apparent desire not to.

He sagged back against the ground. "Thank you."

Sam gave him a small smile. "Get some more sleep. We won't be going anywhere until morning."

"I should keep watch," Cas started. "You and Dean need—"

"Me and Dean have done this plenty of times," Sam interrupted. "I already got some sleep, and now Dean is getting his. So just rest and regain your strength, okay?"

Cas mumbled something unintelligibly, though it sounded disgruntled. However, his eyelids were already drooping, his strength still too spent to stay awake for long. Sam just hoped that with how much progress Cas had made during the night, that he would be even more recovered by dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Dean woke with a start at the sound of a crow's caw echoing through the trees. It took him a moment to realize the stupid bird was harmless, and not a phantom come to life from his nightmares. He rolled into a sitting position and turned around. The fire had died down, leaving charred lumps of wood and that of the vampires' bodies. He flicked his gaze to the left. Cas was laying in the same place, but there was no sign of Sam.

Dean was instantly on his feet, hand whipping out his angel blade. He whirled at the sound of a soft footfall, and froze with weapon halfway raised as Sam appeared, carrying the sheet of bark full of fresh water. His brother paused, eyes widening, and then he gave Dean a sheepish look.

"Sorry," he said softly. "I thought I'd get some more so we could clean up."

Dean nearly sagged from the crash of even that short adrenaline rush. He was on edge; they both were. And for good reason.

He waved off Sam's apology. "Cas doing better?"

The angel looked as though he were resting peacefully at last.

"Yeah. Fever broke a couple hours ago. He woke up once."

"I'm awake again," interrupted a muddled voice.

Both brothers turned to the angel as he gingerly propped himself up on his uninjured arm. Dean hurried over, prepared to berate him for pushing himself too damn fast, but he didn't end up saying anything like that, just clasping Cas's shoulder in a firm, supportive manner that also prevented him from trying to get up further. Sam brought the water tray over and set it on the ground next to them.

"How you doin'?" Dean asked.

"I'm mostly healed." Cas's voice was scratchy, but at least he was conscious and not delirious. Definitely an improvement.

"The hellhound poison?"

"There are only traces left in the bite wound itself," Cas replied, still sounding worn out.

"Okay, let's take a look," Dean prompted.

Cas angled an exasperated look at him, but Dean just returned it with a nonyielding glare of his own. With a huff, Cas gingerly extricated his arm from where he'd been holding it close to his chest. Dean took it carefully, lifting the jagged flaps of sleeve to see the flesh underneath. The puncture wounds were still large and a bit swollen, but more puffy and slightly red than purple, and there were no more scarlet streaks branching up through his veins.

"This will heal, right?" Dean asked.

Cas's jaw looked tightly clenched. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "I'm fine, Dean. I can still protect you and Sam. See, the other wounds have healed." Cas fumbled to pull open his shirt to expose his chest, but winced when he moved his arm.

Dean wanted to see for himself anyway, and so leaned in to take over. Sure enough, the slashes across Cas's chest were now thin pink lines, not fully healed, but not in danger of being torn open again. That was a relief at least.

Dean rocked back on his haunches as he turned his gaze back to the angel's arm. Cas was trying to sit up further, but it was clear from his movements that his arm still hurt like a bitch. He was holding it snuggly against his chest again.

"Would the last of the holy water help?" Sam asked.

"I'll be fine," Cas said, making Dean want to roll his eyes.

"Here," he said, reaching for Cas's tie. "This'll do for a sling."

Cas blinked at him dubiously as Dean undid the knot and slipped the tie over his head, only to readjust the length and sling it over the shoulder opposite his wounded arm. Cas frowned down at his arm as Dean cinched the makeshift sling into a comfortable position.

"Okay?" Dean checked.

Cas nodded slowly, as though he weren't quite sure, or just had never thought to try something so simple. The angel's gaze slid to the stream water in the piece of bark. "I can purify that so you will be able to drink it."

Sam brightened. "Really?"

Dean had to admit he was parched, and the thought of quenching his thirst made his throat even more dry.

Cas nodded, then craned his head around. "Where did you get it? Is there a source nearby? You should drink your fill before we get moving again."

Sam jumped to his feet. "There's a stream just around the corner. Be right back." He picked up the flask from the ground and jogged off.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. He was still exhausted, and the knowledge of just how far they had to go threatened to weigh him down even more.

"I promise to get you and Sam home to your mother," Cas spoke up softly.

Dean jolted at the unexpected statement. "Don't worry, Cas, I'm not giving up." He was gonna get his family home, too. "I just wish I knew what these sons-of-bitches wanted. Sending a hellhound and then vampires after us? That's a twisted sort of game, or someone's really pathetic attempt at assassination."

Cas furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

Dean gestured to the charred remains smoking faintly in the fire pit. "Two vampires attacked us last night. Came out of nowhere."

Cas straightened abruptly. "What? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine. Like I said, these thugs were hardly the Major Leagues." He looked up as Sam returned.

Cas turned to glare at the younger Winchester. "Why didn't you tell me that you and Dean were attacked?"

Sam quirked a confused brow. "Uh, because you'd just woken up."

"I could have healed you."

"Dude," Dean interrupted. "I just told you, we weren't even hurt. These guys were practically amateurs."

Sam tossed him a wry look that might have been disagreement, might not. He shook his head. "Cas, we're fine. And you needed the rest."

Cas's face pinched as though he wanted to say something else, but he nodded to the flask in Sam's hand. "May I please have that?"

Sam passed over the container full of icy stream water. Cas touched the metal casing, and then offered it to Dean with the declaration it was safe to drink. With a shrug, Dean downed half of it. He passed it to Sam, who took several swallows himself before handing it back to Cas. Cas looked ready to decline, but then appeared to think better of it and accepted the flask. He may have been trying to play off how much the hellhound attack had weakened him, but he couldn't stop his body from gulping down the water it desperately needed. When the flask was empty, Sam went to refill it again.

They repeated that process three times, each of them pacing themselves with how much water they drank. It delayed their departure a bit, but that was unavoidable. Besides, Dean was waiting for a little of Cas's color to come back before he forced the angel to his feet in order to go traipsing through the woods when he'd be better off on a couch in the bunker. But, the sooner they got out of here, the better.

Finally, Cas purified the last refill of the flask, and it was time to get moving again. Dean took the lead now, with Cas in the middle and Sam bringing up the rear. Dean set a measured pace, not just because he was being mindful of Cas, but because he didn't want to get too far ahead of him and Sam in case another attack was coming. None of them spoke, either to relieve the tediousness or to complain about the bugs and the growing heat and the shit-storm this whole situation was.

Dean was so worried about the next set of fangs to jump out at them, however, that he forgot to watch for booby traps. He set his foot down on a bed of strewn leaves, only for the ground to give way beneath him. His stomach shot up into his throat as he dropped, and he heard Sam shout in alarm as he twisted around at the last second to try catching himself on the ledge. His chest struck the ridge of earth, knocking the wind out of him, and his fingernails scrabbled frantically through loose silt before he managed to grasp an exposed root. That stopped his free fall with a jarring jerk that nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice sounded muffled through the roaring in Dean's ears as he dangled three feet above rows and rows of sharpened stakes that lined the bottom of the pit. The brown canvas that had covered it lay in a folded heap on one side, leaves stitched into it for camouflage. Dean dug his toes into the escarpment for purchase, but all that did was send chinks of rock raining down on the spikes.

"Dean, hold on!" Cas shouted.

Dean forced his head to turn upward where Cas and Sam were kneeling on the ground and leaning over the opening. They were within arm's reach, but Dean's elbow had already been snapped taut forcefully, and he didn't know if he'd be able to pull himself up. Also, he was afraid of straining the root that was currently holding him back from an ugly death by impalement.

Sam flattened himself on the ground and reached over the ledge, grasping at Dean's sleeve. "Come on, I got you."

Dean gritted his teeth and swung his other arm up to catch his brother's. The root he was hanging from shifted, and his heart nearly punched out through his throat. Sam slid another inch over the precipice.

"Sam, don't," Dean gasped out, lungs burning from adrenaline, terror, and strain.

"I got you," Sam insisted, and heaved with all his might. Dean felt himself rise just a fraction, but then Cas was flailing his arm over the side until he fisted his fingers in the back of Dean's collar. With a tremendous heave, Dean was bodily lifted several feet, enough for Sam to scrabble at his waistband and legs to haul him the rest of the way out of the pit.

All three of them collapsed backwards in a heap on the ground where they stayed for several long moments. Dean waited for his breathing to come back under control before he pushed himself up and stumbled to his feet. Tipping his head back to gaze at the sky, he threw his arms out and shouted,

"What's your game? Show yourself you son-of-a-bitch!"

There was no response. Big surprise.

Dean ignored the sympathetic looks from Sam and Cas, and gestured for the two of them to get up so they could keep going. What else were they gonna do?

The worst thing about this whole crapfest, aside from the booby traps and monsters and hunger, was the unendingness of it all. No matter how far they walked, everything looked the same. Trees, trees, and more trees. Sometimes a meadow, or some mountainous rocks. But for all the ground Dean thought they were covering, there was still no sign of civilization. Cas assured him they were headed in the right direction—and then apologized for slowing them down. That grated on Dean's already frayed nerves. It wasn't Cas's fault, so why did the angel have to keep saying he was sorry?

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Cas, who had been growing steadily paler over the past twenty minutes. He was hunched over more, his good arm now also bracing his injured one in the sling. His jaw was clenched so tight his mouth looked bloodless, and his steps were flagging. Damn idiot would walk himself into the ground before ever admitting he needed a rest.

Dean stopped walking. "Let's take a break."

Sam drew to a stop as well and glanced at Cas, which the angel unfortunately saw and bristled in response to.

"You don't need to stop on my account."

Despite his vexation, Dean really was too tired for an argument. "Come on, man, we're all beat."

"We should at least continue until we find another water source to replenish the flask," Cas argued. "That would serve you better."

Dean scowled at him. "You're about to fall over."

Cas pulled his shoulders back, straightening to his full height, though he continued to cradle his wounded arm against his chest. "I'll manage, Dean. And I will get you and Sam out of here if it's the last thing I do."

Dean leveled a dark look at the angel, and his reply came out low and deadly, even for him. "It better not be the last thing you do."

Cas sighed, and tried to move past him, but Dean shot an arm out to block. No way was Cas running this time.

"Would you stop trying to sacrifice yourself?"

Cas let out an uncharacteristic snort. "Like you don't."

"Hey, don't turn this around on me—"

"Why not?" Cas glared at him with a flicker of fire Dean had only seen recently when the angel was on the verge of violence. "You are always sacrificing yourself—for the greater good. For Sam."

"And look where it's gotten us!"

"Guys," Sam interrupted, always the more reserved mediator.

"No," Dean cut him off, stepping into Cas's personal space. "Yeah, Sam and I have sacrificed ourselves to save each other, to save the world, but it's always a last resort. After we've tried everything else. With you it's like your go-to number one!"

Cas gazed back at him blandly. "What's your point?"

Fury erupted in Dean anew, and he almost grabbed Cas by the lapels of his trench coat to shake him. "When are you going to get it? When are you gonna get that Sam and I don't want you throwing yourself on grenades like this?"

"Better me than you or Sa—"

"You're not listening!" Dean nearly punched him then, and only the sudden brokenness in Cas's expression stopped him.

"That's my role," Cas said in a much more subdued voice.

Dean blinked. "What?"

Cas looked away, off into the trees. "You and Sam are heroes," he said, sounding vaguely detached, almost as though he were reciting something by rote. "I help. That's my purpose. Even if it means laying down on the grenade, as you say."

Dean could only stare at him in bewilderment. Where the hell had that come from?

"Cas," Sam broke in, tone grieved. "Is that what Lucifer told you? Because you know you can't believe a word he says. He tries to mess with your head, that's his thing."

Cas shook his head. "No, he didn't say it, but it's true. That's why I knew I had to say yes to him, so you wouldn't have to." He lifted a watery gaze to Sam's. "I had wanted to spare you pain, but instead I caused it. So I promise you, Sam, I will get you and Dean home. And I will find Lucifer and clean up my mess so he can never threaten you again."

Sam's eyes widened. "Cas…I don't blame you for Lucifer. You know that, right?"

Cas averted his gaze again.

"Cas," Dean picked up, torn between still being pissed and utterly stunned at the angel's despondent bearing. "I told you, you're our brother. No matter how many times me and Sammy screw up, we forgive each other, and we fix things _together_."

There was something in Cas's eyes that was both neutrally dull and sad at the same time. "I had wanted that. Thought…" He gave himself a sharp shake. "But that's pointless. You also said I do help, and that's the core of it, Dean. I think it'd be best for everyone if you and Sam just leave it at that."

Dean stiffened. "Like hell." He exchanged an incredulous look with Sam. What was wrong with him? After everything they'd been through, Cas wanted to, what, pretend they weren't family? Dean shook his head. "No. No, I am not doing that."

Cas let out a weary sigh. "Dean, we really should keep moving."

"Not until we finish this."

"Why must you always be so stubborn?" Cas muttered.

"You're one to talk," Dean retorted.

"Cas," Sam tried again, managing to keep his tone level and concerned despite the growing tension. "Where is this coming from?"

Cas gave him an irritated look. "I don't know what you mean."

Sam seemed undaunted. "You said Lucifer didn't tell you stuff, so where'd you get it? From…" He hesitated, and glanced at Dean. "From us?"

Dean opened his mouth to say no way in hell had he ever filled Cas's head with such nonsense, but the deeply etched worry and guilt on his brother's face stopped his words. Did Sam seriously think it was their fault?

And just like that, a dozen instances of little, minor comments echoed through Dean's mind— _"Clean up your mess." "I need you back in the game."_ —and then there were the not so minor ones: _"You can't stay here."_

And okay, so Dean had let Cas down several times, had been harsh, even. But that did not equate to "we're the heroes and you're the 'helper'" bullcrap.

Cas didn't say anything, but there was something in his carefully composed expression that was answer enough.

"What the hell, man," Dean blurted. "How can you actually think that?"

"Dean," Sam said softly.

"No." He whirled toward Cas again. "I know I've been a crappy friend plenty of times, but come on, Cas. I don't call just anyone family. You know what that means to me, to us. So I'd be laying down on that grenade before I ever let Sam _or_ _you_ do it."

Cas's mouth was pressed into a tight line again. "Why?"

Dean's brows shot upward. "Excuse me?"

" _Why_? I'm no good, Dean. I mess up everything I touch. Why would you continue to take me back if not for the fact that I can still be useful? If I'm not useful, then there's no reason—"

"You're _family_. That's reason enough." How many times was he gonna have to say it?

Cas let out a frustrated noise and half turned away from them.

Sam exchanged a helpless look with Dean, his arm shifting slightly as though he'd reach out and grip Cas's shoulder if the angel weren't injured.

Dean ran a hand through his gritty hair. "I don't get it, man. I don't get how you can ignore everything we've been through."

Cas flashed him a hurt look. "I'm not ignoring it. That's why I keep trying, Dean. Why I will always keep trying."

"Have a funny way of showing it," Dean grumbled.

Cas deflated, which made Dean feel like a dick. But he wasn't the one throwing their friendship back in his face.

"Cas," Sam spoke up. "You _do_ understand that being family isn't something you have to earn, right?"

Cas just stared at him blankly.

"Are you serious?" Dean interjected. "Is that what this is? Dammit, Cas, you know that's not how it is with me and Sam."

Cas's brows knitted together. "But you're…different. I'm an angel." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Or, I was."

Dean scowled, and was on the verge of storming away because they were getting absolutely nowhere.

Sam, however, looked thoughtful. "That's the way it is with angels, isn't it? You have to earn forgiveness and…love. And one mistake takes it all away."

Cas frowned as though he once again didn't understand the point.

Sam sighed. "I get it, Cas. Me and Dean sometimes forget that you've been around for millennia. Habits ingrained for that long are hard to break."

Dean stared dubiously at his brother. Seriously? All this came down to Cas's crappy family dynamics? Despite Dean's mistakes, he had _never_ treated Cas as badly as the other angels had…

A lump settled in his throat. That actually wasn't true, was it? He'd beaten Cas nearly to death, which was a customary greeting from the dicks upstairs. Kicking Cas out? Oh, Heaven had done that too. More than once.

Shit, how much abuse had Dean actually helped reinforce? Sam was right; he forgot sometimes what Cas was, that he was more than just a guy with extra— _useful_ —powers. That Cas had been taught from the beginning to live with blind devotion, never expecting love or gratitude in return, only punishment and exile if he screwed up. And while Dean's actions had never had those motivations behind them, Cas wouldn't have known that. Or if he had, it was probably always laced with a deep, dark doubt that whispered more sinister and damaging thoughts than Lucifer ever could.

Dean reached up to rub his jaw, suddenly weighted down by years of thoughtless words and actions he didn't know how to undo. He looked to Sam for guidance, because his brother was always better with the feelings stuff, as was clearly evident here.

Sam gave him a sympathetic wince, then turned to Cas again. "I get that it's hard for you to believe and accept, but Cas, you _are_ family. And it's not something you have to earn—or something you can ever lose. You could start the next Apocalypse tomorrow and you'd still be our brother."

Cas let out a soft snort and started shaking his head.

"It's true, Cas," Dean insisted. Damn, how was he gonna convince the angel? With time, apparently. Time he hoped they'd get.

He stepped into Cas's personal space and clasped his shoulder, careful not to squeeze too hard. "And that means we _all_ go home." He felt some of the tension seep out of Cas's shoulders.

"Al- alright," Cas said hesitantly.

Dean ducked his head in order to catch that elusive gaze. "So no more throwing yourself on grenades, okay?"

Cas huffed in apparent reluctance, but nevertheless nodded. "Okay."

"Good." Dean took in a deep breath. That was way more feelsy crap than he had the stamina for, and they _still_ had to hike their way out of the Sierras. But by the dodgy glint in Cas's eyes, Dean also knew that the matter wasn't exactly settled. And that was something he was gonna have to fix.

* * *

"We-ll," Rowena drawled. "Wasn't that just darling?"

Crowley lifted his eyes to the ceiling in a pantomime of asking for patience. No one was upstairs to answer, and he was the last person that would be granted such a request. Not that Crowley didn't consider himself an incredibly patient demon, but there were some—one, really—who always managed to try it.

"I should have placed a bet on the sap fest," Rowena continued. She reached up to tap a manicured nail against her chin. "Hm, I wonder if any of the Winchesters are currently keeping a secret from the other. Given their track record, that _is_ likely. I wager it's Dean. What do you think, Fergus?"

"I think Dean has had his fill of _Days of Our Lives_ ," he replied blandly.

Rowena clucked her tongue. "Pity. The family drama is almost as amusing as the sport. Speaking of which, I do wish they'd hurry it up."

That was apparently the consensus all throughout the lodge, if Crowley judged the growing grumbles and occasional "boo"s right.

"Get on with it!" someone shouted louder.

The host of the games raised his hands to quiet the crowd. When all the attention had settled on him, he nodded to Malloy in the back. The hellhound breeder dipped his chin in resignation, and brought forth another hound, this one snapping and snarling at its harness, globs of spit flinging at the guests.

A voice amplified over a loudspeaker. "Place your bets!"


	5. Chapter 5

 

Castiel stumbled across a rut, but Sam shot out a hand from behind, grabbing his elbow and preventing him from falling. He gave the hunter a clipped nod of thanks, his emotions too much of a maelstrom for him to sort out at the moment. Castiel didn't know whether to be frustrated, or touched, or disbelieving. The latter was a strong contender, yet Sam's and Dean's words to him were tentatively holding it at bay. The promise of family, of unconditional acceptance…Castiel knew better, he _did_.

So why, when every time the Winchesters offered it to him, did he want to blindly leap at it like a dog licking up scraps that'd fallen off the table? That was one of Lucifer's metaphors concerning him. Castiel had told the brothers that the Devil hadn't put these ideas into his head, which was true. That didn't mean Lucifer hadn't enjoyed reinforcing them. There was plenty of evidence to parade through his head, too. Castiel's angelic brothers had turned on him more often than not. And he'd earned Dean's ire several times as well. It was only natural for Dean to one minute fervently call him family, and the next cast him aside for not living up to it.

It still hurt, though, every time. And when had Castiel even come to care so much? He was an angel; he wasn't supposed to want things like acceptance and love.

He wasn't much of an angel, though, hadn't been for a long time. Since his brief stint as a human, Castiel had become acquainted with the depths of human emotion, longing, and heartbreak in a way he'd never known before that. It left him craving the very things he didn't believe he should have.

Oh, how he _wanted_ to believe, though. Dean and Sam could be so earnest sometimes; it made it hard to doubt their veracity.

Until Castiel inevitably screwed up again, or until Sam or Mary were in grave danger. Then he would not hold the same standing in their eyes. He also always kept in the back of his mind the knowledge that he could be asked to leave eventually, regardless. Whether due to a screwup, or simply because the brothers needed to focus on building a relationship with their mother, Castiel knew he was an outcast. His gradual fall toward humanity hadn't changed that. If anything, it'd made his precarious existence worse. He was no longer welcome in Heaven, likely never would be again. There was Lucifer to hunt down, but after that? What was waiting for him if not the very family he'd been fighting so hard to protect?

Perhaps that was why he didn't care if he threw himself into danger without regard for his life—the thought of eternal loneliness and penance without results stretching out before him was too much to bear.

But his reckless abandon was apparently bothering the Winchesters. Another failure on his part. He didn't want to have to add thinking about his place in the Winchester's world to the list of tumultuous thoughts roiling inside him and twisting his heart. Because despite the brothers' promises and reassurances, Castiel didn't know where he actually fit with them.

He was torn from such distressing questions by a distant howl that made him come to an abrupt stop.

"Cas?" Sam asked. "You okay?"

His throat turned dry. "There's another hellhound out there."

"What?" Dean exclaimed, whipping his head around frantically.

"It's quite a ways off," Castiel added hurriedly. It was only because of his celestial hearing that he'd heard it at all. Not that it was much comfort; the beast would find them eventually, and no matter what Castiel had promised Dean, he would _not_ let the fiends of Hell get ahold of either Winchester.

Dean reached up both hands to grasp the back of his head, panic already beginning to take hold. Castiel started scanning for trees the Winchesters could take refuge in.

"Which direction is it?" Sam asked.

"The way we're headed," Castiel replied, frowning at the branches covered in rot; those wouldn't bear the hunters' weight.

"Can we make it back to the pit?"

Castiel blinked, and turned to the younger Winchester. Sam's eyes held a glimmer of fear, but also staunch resolve. And if Castiel was guessing the train of his thoughts correctly…well, it was a long-shot, as humans would say, but better than what they had.

"Maybe," he said. "If we run."

Adrenaline was a remarkable thing, able to push past the weariness and weakness in Castiel's limbs, infusing them with a burst of desperate strength. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm, which was aggravated by the jarring pace, and managed to keep up with Sam and Dean.

A howl rent the air, making both brothers skid to a stop and cast harried looks over their shoulders. The hound was closing in.

Castiel tried to orient himself to make sure they were even heading the right direction, but it was difficult between the pain in his arm and burn in his lungs. Sam had already started moving again, and Castiel instinctively hurried after him. It seemed the younger Winchester, at least, remembered the landscape better than Castiel, for he finally spotted the pit up ahead. Though, now that they had run so far, Castiel couldn't quite see how this would give them an advantage.

"What are you thinking?" Dean asked, panting from the mad dash.

Sam swept his gaze over the sharpened stakes, then turned around, mouth set in a grim line. "Bait."

Dean glanced down, then up again. "Really? That's your brilliant plan?" He flinched when more baying echoed through the woods.

Sam's throat bobbed as he surveyed the layout. "Cas, you can see the thing, right?"

"Yes." He drew out his angel blade and started to extract his arm from the sling. There was no other choice.

"Hey, no," Dean snapped. "What did we just talk about?"

Castiel scowled in frustration. "This is no time to argue, Dean."

"You're right, it's not," Sam said, and snatched the angel blade from Castiel's hand. "You two are going to follow my lead, no argument. Dean, that tree over there looks sturdy enough. Take up a perch. Cas, you and I are gonna stand here. At the last possible second, you give the signal and we'll dive out of the way."

Both Castiel and Dean blinked at the younger Winchester.

"I can be the bait on my own," Castiel started to protest.

Sam shook his head fervently. "I said no arguing. Dean, go." He gave his brother a rough shove, then grabbed Castiel by his uninjured elbow and tugged him into position at the edge of the pit.

Dean hesitated only a brief second before he jogged to a tree that was next to a stump able to give him a lift up. Castiel gave Sam a pleading look.

"Sam, please go with Dean."

The stubborn hunter shook his head. "We can't let the hellhound see the pit before it charges."

Castiel wanted to throttle him. "Give me my blade back."

Again, Sam shook his head. "I'm counting on you to pull me out of the way in time."

"Sam, _no_." Castiel had sworn he'd protect the Winchesters, but not like this. Not this close…what if he failed?

Sam's expression softened knowingly. "I trust you, Cas."

Castiel wanted to tell him how stupid that was, but the next howl that pierced the air was nearly upon them. Castiel went rigid, eyes snapping forward as he scanned the woods for the oncoming beast. He spotted a flash of black darting between trees. This one was fast, faster than the first. What if Castiel pushed Sam aside early, and let the hellhound tackle him head-on? They'd both be propelled backward into the pit, ensuring the creature's death, at least. Castiel didn't know what getting impaled would do to him, considering his weakened grace. Sam and Dean would be furious, of course. But then how would he ensure their safety afterward?

"Cas?" Sam said nervously, eyes scanning the forest. The hound's snapping jaws were louder now as it barreled toward them. Forty yards. Thirty.

Castiel swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He could do this; he had to. Sam was still gripping his elbow tightly, preventing Castiel from simply pushing the Winchester aside. He reached up to grip Sam's arm in return, bracing himself.

The hound's red eyes gleamed with the fires of Hell, slobber flinging from its open mouth as it flew across the forest floor, kicking up leaves and twigs. Its speed was incredible, and Castiel had to calculate this just right…

Sam was nearly shaking with anticipation beside him, eyes wide with terror. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath, and then yanked as hard as he could while simultaneously throwing himself to the side as well. Sam was flung around in front of him, and Castiel felt the puff of air as the hellhound sailed past where they'd been standing a split moment before.

* * *

The entire lodge erupted in a roar of outrage, people leaping from their seats, shouting, and throwing things on the floor.

"Are you bleeding joking?" Rowena's high-pitched shriek sounded above some of the din.

Crowley sat at the bar, casually rotating a shot of Scotch between his fingers. He was only mildly surprised by this turn of events. He'd expected Castiel to try sacrificing himself again, but he apparently didn't give Moose enough credit, as that had been a rather ingenious play with the pit. Poor Malloy, though, who would likely be weeping into his own shot of hard liquor any minute now.

As for the rest of these louts, they'd all placed bets on the hellhound getting at least _one_ of the trio before _maybe_ being taken out. Which meant they'd all lost this round.

"Those bloody Winchesters," someone cursed, followed by the shattering of glass.

Crowley snorted under his breath. This was why he wasn't a betting man, but a business one.

The pagan god that was throwing a tantrum turned and narrowed his eyes at Crowley. "You have something to say, whelp?"

Something inside Crowley bristled at the derogative. Did this heathen not know who he was? He feigned a bored air when he responded, however. "No, by all means, carry on."

The deity sauntered closer. He was a hulking brute of a man, Norse lineage, with thick blond hair and a full beard. Frey was the epitome of stout Vikinghood, though his image had been pirated and attributed to Thor in those movies, which may have been a sore point for him, hard to say. For this event, his garb consisted of black pants and a tight fitting brown shirt that showed off his six-pack.

"Who let you in, anyway? Shouldn't you be off licking your wounds?"

Crowley straightened, slowly rotating his stool to face the Norse god. "Excuse me?"

"I heard Lucifer made you his bitch." He canted his head back and raised his voice, "Looks like the puppy got off his leash!"

Several guffaws went up in response.

Crowley got to his feet. "Lucifer is the one hiding with his tail between his legs. I am the King of Hell again. I will always be the King of Hell."

Frey scoffed. "You talk a nice game, Crowley, but everyone knows you haven't got the chops to back it up."

"Send this hound into the arena!" someone nearby jeered.

"Can't," another shouted back. "Lucifer neutered him!"

Molten fury simmered deep inside him, yet Crowley still maintained an unaffected exterior. He may have taken the actual throne of Hell back, but his reputation had been severely damaged, even more so than after Abaddon's attempted coup. And he would never regain his standing if no one, even in the outside supernatural realms, respected his position and level of power.

Which meant it was time to teach these cretins a lesson.

"I'll send a hound in," he said.

The crowd briefly quieted, turning their attention on him more seriously.

Frey arched an unimpressed brow. "Is that so? Careful, lads, Crowley's going to send a _hound_ in."

"I don't suppose you have one you'd like to wager against mine?" Crowley asked blithely. "That hideous boar of yours, perhaps? Oh wait, last I saw of him, he had gotten rather pudgy. Kind of like yourself."

Frey drew himself up to his full height, which towered over Crowley. "What did you say?"

"It's only natural, mate," Crowley continued unabashedly. "The old worshippers are gone, which leaves little alternative to feed on."

"I could still take you, _worm_ ," he hissed.

Crowley held up a hand. "I prefer to place money where the mouth is."

Frey seethed, nostrils flaring. "Fine. We'll take the games up a notch."

* * *

Sam crept to the edge of the pit and glanced over it. Several stakes were coated in oily black fluid, and an even larger puddle was pooling at the bottom. There were no sounds indicating the beast was still alive.

Sam wished he could breathe a sigh of relief, but it was now clear that someone or something was messing with them. The spacing between attacks, coupled with the booby traps, was too planned, too structured. They were being hunted for sport.

Which meant there would just be more hounds in their future, and god knew what else.

He gritted his teeth against the burn in his shoulder; Cas had managed to dislocate it when he'd yanked Sam out of the hellhound's path. It was a small price to pay, since their plan had worked.

Dean came running up behind them. "Is it dead?"

"Yes," Cas replied.

Sam forced himself to his feet, cradling his limp arm. This next part wasn't going to be fun. "Dean, I need…" He grunted and turned his injured shoulder to his brother.

Cas's eyes widened, and he scrambled off the ground, heedless of his own wounded arm. "Sam, did I…? I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Cas," Sam said through a clenched jaw as Dean examined his shoulder. "The point is it worked. This is easily fixed."

Cas took a step closer, fingers stretching out.

Dean gave him a sharp, assessing glance, then lowered his voice to Sam. "Which do you want?"

"Just pop it back in." Sam flashed the angel a grateful smile, but shook his head. "Seriously, Cas, I've done this plenty of times. Save your strength."

Cas's mouth pressed into a bloodless line. "But it's my fault. I should fix it."

Dean huffed out a frustrated breath, which Sam hoped Cas didn't hear.

"You saved my life, Cas," Sam insisted. He tried not to tense as Dean got his hands into position.

"You don't have to endure this," Cas protested, though weakly. He was probably tired of trying to argue with a Winchester.

"This is nothing," Dean said, putting on a casual tone. They always downplayed injuries when it was time for mending them, as though it would somehow make it hurt less. What a crock. Sam waited for the customary count, which Dean would of course not follow in order to try to 'surprise' Sam, because supposedly it hurt less when you weren't expecting it. Which didn't work when you were expecting the fake-out.

"I bet Sam could even Mel Gibson it," Dean continued.

Cas frowned in confusion. "How can an actor be a verb?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "His character in Lethal Weapon was always popping his own shoulder—"

Dean pressed up and in, and Sam nearly doubled over with a strangled cry.

"There you go."

"Agh, jerk," Sam gasped.

"You're welcome, bitch." Dean turned to Cas. "How's your arm?"

Cas was staring at Sam morosely. "Can I at least heal the swelling so you're not in pain?"

Sam heaved in several deep breaths. "Only if you let Dean check your injuries."

Cas huffed, but nevertheless stood still while Dean gently took his arm and peeked under the tattered sleeve.

"I guess it looks better. It still hurt?"

Cas looked ready to shake his head, but then begrudgingly nodded, and Dean demanded to see the slashes on his chest next. From what Sam could tell, those looked fully healed.

"Alright," Dean said. "You sure your mojo can handle it?"

"It will hardly take anything," Cas pouted, sounding grumpy again. Sam let him reach out and heal the residual inflammation and grinding from having a joint pop in and out like that, and Sam did breathe a sigh of relief. He felt bad, though, because neither of them could do the same for the angel.

Dean ran a hand down his face wearily. "So we just lost nearly an hour of progress backtracking," he grumbled. "Which means we'll probably have to spend another night out here. Not to mention who knows how many more hellhounds are gonna come out of the woodwork. What if there's an unending line of them?"

Yeah, that was definitely posing a problem.

"Whoever's behind this is probably not gonna let us walk out of here, even if we made it that far," Sam pointed out.

"I don't see how we have much choice," Cas said.

"You're right about that," a new voice spoke up from behind, making them all startle.

A Native American man with long black hair and broad shoulders stood on the other side of the pit. He arched a brow as he glanced down at the hellhound. "Clever, boys. I knew you'd be entertaining."

"Who are you?" Dean demanded, hand twitching toward the angel blade in his jacket.

"It doesn't matter."

"He's a pagan deity," Cas said, eyes narrowing. "Coyote."

"The Trickster?" Sam asked incredulously.

"I thought that was Gabriel?" Dean interjected.

"There are a few of us with that auspicious title," Coyote replied. "And I admit I admired Loki's work. Before it became known what he truly was."

Sam drew his shoulders back in the face of their revealed enemy. "What do you want?"

Coyote waved a dismissive hand. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Your resilience will make the sport last longer."

"What is this, the Hunger Games?" Dean scowled. "And if we refuse to play?"

Coyote shrugged. "Then you die when the next hound is sent in. Or maybe one of the spectators will decide to become a player."

"Spectators?" Sam repeated.

"You mean those vamps?" Dean asked.

"They gambled and lost." Coyote chuckled. "Many lost their wagers on this round too." He gestured to the dead hellhound.

"Why are you doing this?" Cas spoke up.

Coyote's gaze darkened. "You three gamble with the world on a regular basis. This recent fiasco with the Darkness was the last straw, for many of us. So I'm simply turning the tables. You'll die eventually, know that, but whether by hound, monster, or trap, someone on the outside will win for once."

His expression smoothed. "You could refuse to play, and cutting the games short will be disappointing, but I don't think you have it in you. Each of you has always fought tooth and nail to protect the others. It's in the very fiber of your beings." Coyote grinned. "So get ready, boys, things are about to heat up." With that, he vanished.

Sam exchanged a tense look with Dean and Cas. How the hell were they supposed to get out of this?

"Great," Dean muttered. "We're screwed." There was a slight tremor in his voice, and Sam knew his brother was fighting down his panic at the prospect of having to face an endless onslaught of hellhounds.

Sam wracked his brain for something, _anything_ , that they could do. They had some allies left in the world, but no way to get in touch with them. And Sam wasn't willing to pull more hunters into the mix to become game show contestants along with them. No, they had to get themselves out of this mess.

He stared at the pit and the pool of slick unguent that had stopped flowing. "Cas, can you consecrate this ground if we partially bury the hound?"

Cas quirked a confused brow at him. "I…suppose. But why?"

"Graveyard dirt is a common ingredient in spells," Sam replied. "Might be useful. So the fact that it's a hellhound won't matter?"

"It shouldn't."

Nodding thoughtfully, Sam twisted around to scan the surrounding forest floor. He went to pick up a hefty tree branch with a jagged end, and used it to start dislodging some of the soil around one corner of the pit so it crumbled down on top of the dead beast.

Dean found another branch and started doing the same. "This is gonna take forever," he groused.

"It doesn't need to be buried all the way," Sam said.

"Then, what, one of us is supposed to jump in to scoop it back out? Sam, we don't have time for this."

"According to Coyote, we've got all the time there is," Sam rejoined, and worked another chunk of earth loose, which spilled down to half cover the beast. He stepped back before the ground beneath him could give way as well. "Cas?"

The angel studied the progress. "That should be sufficient."

Sam and Dean moved back a little more while Cas stood at the edge of the pit and muttered a few words in Latin, some of which Sam recognized as being from a funeral liturgy.

Cas lifted his head. "It's done."

Sam moved back to the precipice and sat down, then slowly swept his legs over the ledge.

"Sam," Dean said warningly.

"I'm good," he responded, and carefully started sliding down the less steep incline, careful to avoid the spikes still protruding through the makeshift grave. "Cas, tell me if I'm about to touch…you know."

Crouching down, Sam started sifting his fingers through the dirt where he could smell sulfur—another ingredient he wanted to collect. There were some yellow flecks in the pools of blood, but also in the soil, having been transferred from the hellhound. Sam pulled out his bandana and laid it out, then started scooping handfuls of dirt into it. Once he'd filled as much as he could, he tied the corners together and tucked it back into his jacket. Dean reached down to give him a helping arm climbing out.

Sam turned to Cas. "Could you find a snake?"

Cas blinked at him in bewilderment. "Yes…but there are better things for you to eat."

Sam shook his head. "I need the snakeskin."

Dean's brows shot upward. "You're trying to make goofer dust."

"I don't know how well it'll work," he admitted. "But it's worth a try, right?"

Cas straightened abruptly with new resolve. "I'll find you a snakeskin."

He turned and strode off into the bushes. Dean hurried after him, apparently still intent on keeping a close eye on the still-recovering angel. Sam followed, searching the underbrush himself. They had only a couple hours of daylight left, and maybe that time would have been better spent making headway out of the mountains, but he'd much rather have some kind of defense ready for when they made camp that night. Unless the next 'round' would feature some brave 'spectator' instead of a hellhound.

Sam clenched his fists. These douchebags wanted a fight? He'd give it to them.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Summoning Juliet required leaving the lodge and searching his crypts, but Crowley found her in the second place he checked, guarding his stash like the good beastie she was. Juliet immediately leaped to her feet, mouth parting and tongue lolling out. She whined excitedly and wagged her tail in greeting.

"Ah, there you are, love," Crowley said, striding forward to give her a pat on the head.

She chuffed in response, hot breath wafting across his face—she stood almost to his shoulder.

"I have a very important task for you," Crowley continued, and drew out a pen and small piece of parchment from his suit jacket. Juliet's eyes gleamed red with eagerness.

"I need you to deliver a message." Crowley finished scribbling on the paper, then folded it several times until it was a small square, which he then tucked under the inside of Juliet's collar. "No maiming of the targets, unfortunately. I want them to get out of this alive."

He took a step back to look her over. She was twice as large as Malloy's other hellhounds had been, which gave her a significant chance of taking down one of the Winchesters or Castiel, if that had been Crowley's goal.

"Go for the angel first," he instructed. "And make it look good."

Crowley reached his hand out to settle on Juliet's neck, and transported them both back to the lodge. The moment they materialized out of the void, anyone standing near them took several nervous steps back. Crowley grinned inwardly that they were frightened of Juliet. He'd bring her everywhere with him if he didn't need people to fear _him_ for his own sake.

Malloy walked over, eyes wide as he flicked his gaze between Juliet and Crowley. "You can't send Juliet in," he hissed. "She's the last of her line!"

Crowley arched a brow. "Are you reneging on the supremacy of your stock?"

Malloy's throat bobbed. At least there were still some who revered Crowley with the appropriate amount of veneration. "My lord, send another. Any of mine."

"Juliet is the quintessential specimen of hell beasts," Crowley replied. "The strongest and the smartest. I'm confident in her abilities."

Malloy slumped in resignation and moved aside so Crowley could lead Juliet through the throng, letting them admire her for a few moments before they began placing their bets.

"My, my, Fergus, where have you been keeping that?"

Crowley sighed in annoyance and turned. "Best keep your distance, mother. Wouldn't want Juliet satiating her appetite before the arena."

Picking up on her master's mood, Juliet rumbled deep in her throat.

Rowena lifted her chin. "Hm," she simpered. "I must say I'm surprised. I didn't think you capable of killing the Winchesters."

"The one thing you've never seemed to learn, is never underestimate Crowley," he replied, and turned away. He strode across the room toward where Coyote stood near the door where Juliet would be sent through to enter the 'arena.'

"I have an entry," Crowley informed the Trickster.

Coyote's mouth quirked to reveal a glimpse of tooth. "We're just waiting on one more to add some competition."

The doors at the other end of the common room swung open with a bang. Frey strutted in, a large, hulking boar lumbering beside him. The two approached Coyote.

"I present the mighty Gullinbursti!" Frey announced, sweeping his arm out in a flourish.

Crowley arched an unimpressed brow at the chunky hog, face so pudgy its beady eyes could barely be seen, and its legs seemed too squat to support the bulky frame.

"That, you can maim," Crowley whispered to Juliet, who had begun salivating at the sight of the pig.

Coyote opened the door. "Let the next round begin!"

Frey let out a hearty bellow that startled Gullinbursti into moving with a squeal, its chubby legs skittering out the door.

Crowley rolled his eyes, looked to Juliet, and nodded. The hellhound leaped forward like a sprung coil, overtaking the boar in a second and dashing off into the woods. Coyote closed the door, and everyone turned their attention to the monitors again.

Crowley returned to the bar counter and took a seat. Time to change the game.

* * *

They were forced to make camp for a second night, and though Castiel had said there was better game he could hunt for the Winchesters, there was no reason for the snake he'd caught to go to waste. After skinning it so Sam could complete the concoction of goofer dust, Castiel stuck the rest of it on a stick to roast over the fire Dean had set up. The older Winchester's nose crinkled at the sinewy meat, and though he seemed anything but enthusiastic about eating it, he didn't offer any complaint or pass as he had with the nuts and berries from yesterday.

While the snake cooked over the open fire, Castiel gingerly removed his arm from the sling. The wounds still ached, but he was quickly regaining full range of movement. If there were indeed other 'players' who might come after them, Castiel wanted to be fully ready. He'd have no problem dispatching any lower-level monsters such as vampires, or even demons if they were involved; it was the hellhounds that could cause him serious harm.

Sam finished mixing the ingredients he'd gathered and stood up to start pouring a thin line of the stuff in a circle around their camp.

"So that'll keep the hellhounds out," Dean said despondently. "But not the vamps, werewolves, or whatever the hell else wants to come play."

Sam sighed as he closed the circle, then sat down next to his brother. "Yeah. Honestly not sure which I prefer." He held his hands out in front of the fire to warm them. "So what do we do? We can't just keep fighting monsters and dodging booby traps forever."

Dean scowled. "Yeah, but we can't just give up, either."

"Of course not," Sam rejoined. "But we need a plan."

"How about kill the bastard?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Steps one, two, and three might help."

Castiel fingered his tie in his hands, considering whether he should put it back on, but that seemed silly, so he just stuffed it in his pocket. "Perhaps if we can make it out of the mountains, we can escape. They can't have the entire area warded to lock us in."

"Sounds like they're watching us pretty closely," Sam said.

They fell quiet for a moment, each of them suddenly shifting their gazes around the darkening woods warily. The thought of being observed, even now, was unnerving.

Castiel cleared his throat. "It is our best chance."

Dean heaved out a frustrated sigh. "Same as it was from the beginning," he agreed, sounding tired. "How long do you think that goofer dust will last?"

Sam glanced around the small circle he'd made, just large enough to enclose them if they spread out to rest around the campfire, then patted the bulge in the handkerchief containing what was left. "If I try to gather it up again, two more nights, but then…"

"We'll need more snakeskin and another body to bury so we can consecrate some dirt," Dean finished. "Two things I don't think we'll have to worry about getting."

Unfortunately, that was likely true. And if more hellhounds came, they'd also be able to collect the sulfur as well.

Dean pulled out his gun and released the magazine into his palm. "I've got two rounds left."

Sam's face fell. "I've got four."

"So we need to be careful when we use them." Dean put the magazine back and set the gun down, then rubbed both hands vigorously over the scratchy growth coming in on his face.

Castiel thought of how many bullets it had taken to weaken the first hellhound enough for Castiel to finish it off, and was not encouraged. At some point they would have to start setting traps of their own, or rig some kind of defenses to give them an advantage in a fight. But they couldn't do that while on the move. So either they continued forward, vulnerable, or stood their ground against an enemy that would keep sending attacks their way…with no end in sight.

"Since bullets work on few supernatural beings, you should save them for hunting game," Castiel said. He didn't want to be so focused on protecting the Winchesters from predatory threats that they forgot the dangers of starvation.

He rotated the snake on the spit, then removed it from the fire. "It's done." He broke the stick in half, and handed one end each to the Winchesters. They both gave the snake meat dubious looks before digging in and tearing strips off with their teeth.

Dean made a small noise of surprise, smacking his lips in distaste as he tried to pick the many tiny bones out of his mouth. Sam was doing the same.

"Well," Dean said with a grimace. "It does taste like chicken."

"Do you want some, Cas?" Sam asked.

"I don't need to eat."

"You'd tell us if you did, though, right?"

He instinctively bristled under the pointed gazes they both gave him, then sighed. "Yes, I will tell you if that becomes a problem."

"It wouldn't be a _problem_ ," Dean said in a low tone.

Castiel wanted to argue that an angel falling so far as to need human sustenance was most certainly a problem, but he brushed off the issue. "I will take the watch tonight. You two should get as much rest as you can."

Neither Winchester protested, as they were rather preoccupied with picking more bones off their tongues. Once they finished their arduous meal, the brothers tried to find comfortable positions curled around the fire, both for warmth and so that they stayed inside the small protective circle. It was more difficult for Sam, who had to tuck his knees up to his chest.

Castiel sat quietly, listening to the insects singing their nocturnal chords, the hoot of an owl, and the occasional shuffle as one of the brothers shifted on the hard ground. He noticed when their breathing finally evened out in a light sleep, and was grateful for it. This ordeal was wearing on them all, which would make them more vulnerable as time went on. They had been in a hurry to escape this place, but now it seemed they would have to be smarter, and thus slower, in their strategy.

The fire crackled and popped, sending embers up into the night like fireflies that winked out before they could make it past the treetops and into the heavens. Castiel got to his feet, careful not to disturb the Winchesters, and quietly stepped outside the circle to gather more firewood. He built up a pile, outside the ring of goofer dust but within arm's reach so he could replenish the fuel throughout the night.

He retook his seat, wondering if he should try to catch a nocturnal creature that the Winchesters could eat for breakfast the next morning. He didn't want to stray too far, though.

A twig snapped, and Castiel jerked ramrod straight. He automatically slipped his angel blade into his hand, sweeping his gaze around the forest. Red eyes gleamed from several yards away, and Castiel tensed; he had never seen a hellhound that massive before. With its brawny frame poised next to a tree, Castiel gauged the creature to be at least five feet tall.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade, hoping the goofer dust was a sufficient barrier. The hellhound took a slow step forward, then moved to the left like a liquid shadow. Its paws barely disturbed the pine needles as it slowly stalked a wide perimeter around the campsite.

Castiel frowned, keeping his eyes trained on the beast. Why wasn't it baying in anticipation of a hunt? Or coming closer? Did it smell the goofer dust from afar and not want to approach? That seemed…odd. These beasts were usually ferocious and ballistic in behavior, not measured and patient as this one appeared to be.

Castiel watched warily as the hound made a complete circuit and then returned to take up a guard stance at a distance. After several minutes of nothing happening, Castiel began to shift uncomfortably. Perhaps the hellhound would not attack while they were safely in the circle. But that did pose a problem for when dawn came. They couldn't just stay in a standoff.

Castiel glanced at the sleeping Winchesters and decided not to wake them yet. If the hellhound came closer, he would, but for now, he would simply watch and wait.

Those red eyes never blinked as the night wore on. Neither did Castiel.

When dawn began to bleed into the sky, Dean was the first to stir. He groaned as he pushed himself up and started rolling toward the protective line. Castiel lashed out a hand to grab his shoulder and stop him before he could accidentally smear it.

Dean froze instantly, eyes narrowed on Castiel's. "What is it?" he whispered.

"Hellhound."

Dean slowly turned the other direction so he could follow Castiel's unwavering gaze. "Where?"

"Ten yards." Castiel kept his voice low. "It hasn't moved since last night."

" _Last night_?" Dean hissed. "Why didn't you wake us?"

"Because it hasn't moved," Castiel repeated, brow furrowing slightly. He heard a soft noise from his right as Sam cautiously sat up, having apparently woken as well.

"I didn't hear any howling," the younger Winchester said, equally quiet.

"It hasn't announced a scent," Castiel said. "I don't know what it's doing."

"Okay, well, this is a problem," Sam pointed out. "What do we do?"

Castiel's jaw tightened. "I suggest I go out and face it."

Dean snatched his hand out to grab Castiel's wrist. " _No_."

"Dean's right," Sam put in hurriedly. "Taking on a hellhound head-on didn't work so well the first time."

"There are no booby traps around that we might use against it." Castiel shook his head. He wasn't eager to face this fiend, but they had no other options. "We can't just sit here," he pressed.

The hellhound suddenly lowered its head and slunk forward, crossing those ten yards in a lope. Castiel leaped to his feet, angel blade at the ready, but Dean still had a grip on his wrist and wasn't letting go.

" _Cas!_ " Dean stiffened as he caught sight of the leaves depressing under the hulking hound's paws. He recoiled a step, as far away from the line of goofer dust as he could get without stepping in the low burning campfire.

Castiel's heart rate began to thud erratically against his rib cage as he watched the creature come all the way up to the line and lower its nose to sniff. Nostrils flared, sending out a puff of hot breath that even the Winchesters would be able to see standing this close.

"Uh, guys?" Sam asked tremulously.

Castiel waited, trying to judge potential openings. He'd have to wrench out of Dean's grip without propelling the hunter the wrong direction, and he'd have to get the drop on the hound before it could bite him. All factors he was not overly confident about. He could try throwing his angel blade, but if he couldn't be sure of a fatal hit, he'd then be weaponless.

The hellhound canted its head at the line, scarlet eyes eerily calculating. Then it slowly leaned down, angling its muzzle toward the ground. With one blasting snort, the granules of dirt and sulfur scattered, breaking the line.

Castiel thrust Dean behind him, angel blade raised. The hound snapped at the tail end of his coat, catching the fabric between its teeth and yanking Castiel off balance. He hit the ground in a roll which he desperately tried to scramble out of, but a split second later, the beast slammed its head into his side, driving him down to land flat on his back. One paw crunched down on his wrist, pinning his sword arm, while the other pressed upon his chest.

"Cas!" Dean yelled.

The mastiff whipped its head around with a vicious snarl, and Castiel felt the wave of shadowed dread that exuded from the beast to envelope the Winchesters. Dean and Sam both flinched, their eyes suddenly flitting around as though seeing things that weren't there.

Castiel tried to buck the beast off. "Leave them alone," he growled.

The hound jerked its attention back to him, that gaping maw looming above his face. Hot, putrid breath wafted down, making Castiel's eyes water. It reared its head back, and Castiel braced himself for the inevitable, one last pang of grief stabbing his heart because he had failed to save Sam and Dean, who were shouting for him and ducking invisible phantoms.

Yet as those jaws angled down to strike Castiel's jugular, the hellhound turned just a fraction, its canines almost grazing Castiel's cheek instead. Saliva dribbled on the ground next to him, but the beast _wasn't_ biting.

Castiel was frozen in stupefaction, blood roaring in his ears as the weight of the beast continued to press him into the earth. The hound gave its head a small shake, enough to jingle the ruby studded collar around its neck. Wait, the _what_?

Castiel blinked at the ornate adornment, and the fold of parchment that seemed to be sticking out from underneath it. The hell beast chuffed in what almost sounded like annoyance, and lowered its head further, scratching its coarse fur against the angel's face. Castiel gaped in befuddlement for another moment before slowly reaching up toward the collar. He suspected he was going insane, that the hound would snap his hand off for this, but the beast didn't move. Castiel slipped the piece of paper out and palmed it, wondering what the heck was going on and what was supposed to happen next.

The hellhound turned its head to show its red eyes gleaming hungrily. Castiel's heart gave another jolt as he felt the beast extend its claws against his chest. So, he was about to be eviscerated instead.

A high-pitched squeal sounded from the woods, and both Castiel and the hellhound whipped their gazes toward what appeared to be a large boar lumbering through the underbrush. The hellhound pulled its lips back in a snarl, and Castiel could only stare at the bewildering sight. The grotesque pig was charging toward the camp, flinging its head back and forth as though it intended to gore something with its tusks. Castiel shot a panicked look toward the Winchesters, who were still stricken with the hellhound-induced hallucinations.

But then the hog stumbled with a horrendous squeal, and veered to the side to crash right into the hellhound. Both creatures rolled aside in a tangle of growls and screams. Castiel scrambled to his feet as the hellhound attacked the pig. One of the tusks had raked the hound's flank, and it was now retaliating. Pained squeals rent the air as the boar thrashed in an effort to get the wolf off.

Castiel hurried back to Sam and Dean, now free of the hellhound's hallucinations, and both were staring incredulously at the scene unfolding before them. The hellhound got in another scratch along the pig's side, and finally backed away, gnashing its teeth menacingly.

The boar stumbled, bleeding from several severe scratches. The hellhound wasn't completely unscathed, either, and turned to begin licking some of its wounds.

"Cas, what's happening?" Dean shouted. "Where's the hellhound?" He had his gun out and sweeping the area in search of the invisible fiend.

The boar gave itself a vigorous shake, and then let out a half-squeal, half-snort. Pawing the ground, it then charged toward them. Dean raised his gun and fired once, hitting the pig right between the eyes. The chunky animal pitched face first into the ground and skidded a few inches before its hefty bulk stopped its momentum.

The hellhound gave one, almost disdainful, look at the boar, and then turned tail and took off with a limp into the woods.

"Cas?" Dean pressed, still sweeping his gun around.

"The hellhound ran off," he said.

Dean hesitated a split second before stashing his gun in his waistband and then grabbing Castiel by both arms and frantically looking him over for injuries. "It bite you?" he demanded.

"No. I'm unhurt," Castiel replied.

"What the hell just happened?" Sam uttered, still gazing disbelievingly at the boar.

Castiel did not have an answer. He glanced down as he suddenly remembered the paper clutched in his hand. Why would the hellhound have wanted him to have this if it was just going to kill him anyway? Except, it hadn't been that badly wounded by the boar; it still could have attacked him and the Winchesters and likely caused severe damage. Yet it hadn't.

Castiel looked at the word written on the top fold of the paper. "Poughkeepsie."

Dean whirled toward him. "What did you say?"

"Poughkeepsie," he repeated, holding up the paper. "I have no idea what it means."

Dean shot a look at Sam, then gestured for the three of them to huddle closer before taking the paper. "Where'd you get this?" he asked in a lower voice.

"From the hellhound," Castiel said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. "It was tucked in the creature's collar, and it…seemed as though it wanted me to have it."

Both of the Winchesters' brows rose sharply.

"It had a _collar_?"

"It gave you a _note_?"

"A rather ornate collar," Castiel explained. "Though I don't know who would—"

"I do," Dean said. He had unfolded the parchment and was looking at it with a grim expression. "Crowley."

"What?" Sam sputtered. "He's in on these games?"

"Sort of," Dean replied cryptically, and angled the paper so Sam and Castiel could see better.

_"Can't stay out of trouble, can you? Follow the breadcrumbs to grandmother's house."_

Castiel frowned. "I don't understand these references. They are from two completely different fairytales."

Dean's mouth pressed into a pensive line. "The wolf went ahead to the grandmother's house."

Sam snorted. "Are you serious? What, we're supposed to follow a hellhound out of here?" He shook his head. "More likely it's another trap."

"I don't know…" Dean said, still keeping his voice pitched low.

"It's a _hellhound_ , Dean. More than that, it's Crowley."

"Yeah, and he's helped us out in the past," Dean countered.

"When there was something in it for him."

"I'm not saying there isn't, but it's not like we're in a position to be picky."

Sam crossed his arms. "The hellhound ran off; how are we supposed to follow it?"

Castiel glanced over his shoulder in the direction the beast had fled. Black drops of ichor were splattered across the ground at even paces. "There's a blood trail."

"Oh yeah, a wounded hellhound is totally gonna be cool with us tailing it," Sam scowled.

"What else are we supposed to do?" Dean demanded. "Keep going hoping we find our way out of here? Or stay and fix the goofer dust line, for all the good it did us."

Castiel pursed his mouth. "The trail does seem to be leading south, the direction we need to be heading."

Sam heaved a heavy sigh. "Fine. I'm just saying, you know this is insane, right?"

Dean shrugged.

"If we go, we may die," Castiel pointed out. "If we stay, it will be the same."

"Go Team Optimism," Dean muttered, but then he drew his shoulders back with a renewed air of staunch resolve. "Let's get a move on, then."


	7. Chapter 7

 

Frey let out a roaring bellow and threw his mug at the wall, shattering its amber liquid down the wainscoting. The pagan god whirled on Crowley. "Your hound attacked my Gullinbursti!"

Crowley slammed his own drink on the counter and surged to his feet. "He attacked her first!" he shouted back. "She was about to take out the angel when _your_ blundering boar mucked it all up!"

In truth, though, Crowley could not have planned the fiasco better. Not only had Frey been humiliated, but his idiot Gullinbursti had provided the perfect distraction to keep everyone's attention off the Winchesters and Castiel as they read Crowley's covert message. The camera angle wasn't even focused on the trio at the moment, but on the hideous boar's leaking corpse on the forest floor, not that anyone was looking at the monitor.

Snickers trickled through the crowd, and Frey's face reddened as others began to mock his boar's pathetic battle charge, going so far as to compare Gullinbursti's incompetence with Frey's own prowess—or lack thereof. Which of course the Norseman could not abide.

"I will go in and defeat the Winchesters and their worthless angel!" he yelled to be heard over the raucous jeering. Frey then turned and sneered at Crowley. "Your pretty hellhound is fair game in the arena as well."

Crowley scoffed. "Careful you don't trip over her."

The crowds reacted with boisterous guffaws.

Nostrils flaring, Frey stalked off to ready himself.

Crowley watched him go, the hint of a satisfied smile attempting to break out on his face. He maintained a stoic countenance, however, and retook his seat at the bar, casually lifting his glass to his lips.

Rowena sauntered up to him, hips sashaying in her finely fitted gown. She eyed him shrewdly for a moment before asking, "Just what are you up to here, Fergus?"

"What I'm always up to, mother," he replied blithely. "Winning."

* * *

Even though he had been the one to suggest it, Dean could not believe they were following a freakin' hellhound like it was Lassie. Every one of his instincts was screaming at him to run in the complete _opposite_ direction. But Cas said this was the way out of the mountains, and since it coincided with where the hellhound was supposedly leading, they kept at it.

Besides, it wasn't like they were in a position to turn down potential help, even if they couldn't be certain they weren't being led into a trap, and it involved trusting a fiend from the Pit. That was just what their lives had become.

They came across another river, and so stopped to refill the flask and drink their fill with Cas purifying it each time. Dehydration was a more immediate threat than starvation, but Dean's stomach was still cramping from hunger and he had a killer headache from caffeine withdrawal. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while Sam and Cas took their turns drinking.

Cold fingers touched his temple, and Dean startled, eyes flashing open to find Cas standing _right_ there. "Warn a guy would you?" he snapped, jerking back a step to reclaim his personal space. He thought the angel had gotten better with that shit.

Cas's expression fell. "Sorry. You looked in pain."

Dean realized his headache was gone, as was a little of his hunger pains. He sighed. "Yeah. Thanks."

Cas pressed his mouth into a pensive line. "You used to ask me to heal you all the time."

Dean frowned; what was he talking about? He'd asked Cas to heal them not that long ago, after they'd saved Sam from that British Woman of Letters. Okay, he hadn't actually _asked_ ; Cas just walked right over and did his thing, because Sam had been in rough shape, and Mom had gotten a bit banged up. Dean's injuries from being used as a punching bag weren't that serious, but he'd let Cas heal him last because he didn't want to make a scene in front of his mom…

But if Mom hadn't been there, yeah, Dean might have brushed off the offer of healing. And it didn't really have anything to do with Dean's guilt over nearly beating the angel to death anymore. He'd just…gotten used to Cas not being around since Lucifer had moved in.

"I used to ask a lot of things of you," Dean said. Demand, really, which was apparently something that had reinforced Cas's belief that his value was only in his usefulness, which was why he'd said yes to Lucifer in the first place.

"But I don't want you doing that," he added. At Cas's confused look, he realized the angel hadn't heard the monologue in his head. "I don't want to be demanding things of you," Dean tried to explain, feeling woefully inadequate when Cas's expression only furrowed more.

"I don't like seeing you suffer," Cas said.

Dean deflated some. "Yeah, but the same goes for you. Just…even if you couldn't have healed me just now, know I wouldn't kick you to the curb because of it, or value you less."

Cas nodded slowly. Dean hoped he really was starting to get it, but knew it was gonna take time and a lot of reinforcement to break down the bricks of guilt and self-loathing the angel had built within himself. Bricks that Dean had helped lay.

He exchanged a look with Sam, who'd been listening as unobtrusively as possible. They needed to figure out what to do once they were out of this hellhole, because Dean suddenly realized that letting Cas go his separate way like usual probably wasn't a good idea, and why hadn't they ever invited the angel to actually move into the bunker with them when he wasn't injured or recovering from something? Dean had just assumed Cas knew he was welcome, another thing he'd taken for granted. Some family they were.

Cas suddenly stiffened, looking at something over Dean's shoulder.

He went rigid in response. "Cas?"

"The hellhound," he said quietly.

Dean's hand drifted to his gun. "Where?"

"On the rise." Cas dipped his chin, and Dean followed the direction of his gaze. He couldn't see anything, of course, but if he was looking in the right place, the hellhound was actually pretty far away. It wasn't baying, either, so that was something.

"I think…" Cas said tentatively. "It's waiting for us to keep moving."

Sam let out a soft snort of disbelief, but bent down to fill the flask one last time.

Dean took a deep breath. "Then let's not try its patience."

Sam passed the flask to Cas, who held his hand over the top for a brief moment before handing it back. Then the angel turned and set off, presumably in the direction of the hellhound.

It was slow going, as they were all being cautious with their "guide." A short distance later, Cas pulled up short, brow furrowing.

"It changed direction," he said.

"Okay…" Dean glanced around. The woods seemed quiet and still like they normally did.

Cas pointed to the ground, and it took Dean a moment to notice the flecks of black blood. "It abruptly turned north here."

"So we've been randomly following it for nothing," Sam groused.

"Or maybe this is as far as it'll take us," Dean countered. He took a step forward, and then froze as a vicious snarl sounded through the trees. Dean whipped around, expecting some invisible beast to come barreling out at them, but he couldn't see anything.

Cas was standing rigidly, gaze fixed on something to their left. He moved a step toward Dean, and a low growl reverberated in response. Cas stopped, hesitated, and then took a step north following the blood trail. The hellhound didn't make a sound.

"I believe it intends for us to go this way."

"You can't be serious," Sam hissed. "You said that's the wrong way."

"It must have its reasons," Cas replied. For an angel, he seemed much more accepting of this whole arrangement than the brothers.

Dean shook his head. "Let's just…go a little ways and see what happens."

Sam shot him a bitch-face, but didn't protest as Cas started forward again, leaving the Winchesters to either fall in step or get left behind. It turned out they only went about six yards before the trail turned east again, then south a short ways after that. Dean was beginning to wonder whether Crowley was toying with them for kicks, when he happened to glance over his shoulder and caught sight of the backside of a wooden rack lined with spikes, set vertically on the other side of some bushes. Had they walked down the middle as they'd planned, they probably would have sprung the booby trap and been caught in the mouse trap.

Dean tapped Sam's shoulder and pointed. A muscle in his brother's jaw ticked when he spotted the contraption. Cas's mouth was pressed in a thoughtful line as he gazed back as well. Guess the hellhound knew what it was doing.

They continued on a bit longer, and then Cas slowed to a stop and started twisting his head around.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, tensing once again. He almost wished he could see the hellhound to know what was going on, though part of him knew it was better that he didn't.

"I'm not sure," Cas replied. "The hound disappeared."

Now Dean started turning this way and that. "What?"

"It's been staying a certain distance ahead of us, but I've been able to sense it. Now it's gone…as though it doesn't want to be found."

That didn't sound good.

"So what do we do?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Keep going? We have to be getting close, right?"

Cas narrowed his gaze. "I think something else is out here." His angel blade slipped into his hand.

Dean wanted to moan. Of frickin' course there was.

"What is it this time?" he muttered under his breath.

Cas started moving forward again, cautiously, eyes peeled. Dean withdrew his own angel blade, while Sam nervously kept a hand on his gun. Maybe Cas was just being paranoid and it was a regular animal, like a bear. A grizzly would scare off a hellhound, right?

_Yeah, right_.

They passed by an escarpment when a war cry rang out from above. Dean whipped his head up just as a hulking dude with a sword came leaping off the ledge. He hit both Dean and Cas, sending them sprawling on the ground.

Dean rolled to his feet as quickly as he could, and then twisted to avoid the sword that came arcing down toward his head. The blade struck the ground with enough force that it sent chunks of dirt flying. Dean scrambled away from it, his angel blade too short to stop a blow from _that_.

Their attacker wrenched his sword free and twirled it in his hand, obviously showing off. Dean stared dubiously at the guy's leather pants and vest, not to mention the helmet with horns on his head. Great, they must be in gladiator mode.

Cas pushed himself up and charged at the Viking wannabe, who spun around to meet the attack. Metal collided with a discordant screech as the two blocked and parried in a duel of steel. The guy—Dean was gonna guess pagan deity—obviously possessed brute strength, but Cas was quick and agile and holding his own. Until the brutish man rammed his shoulder straight into Cas's chest, propelling the angel back until he slammed against a tree. There was a resounding crack as wood splintered from the impact, and the pine groaned under the strain. Their assailant grabbed Cas's throat and squeezed.

Dean raised his blade and rushed in, stabbing the Viking in his beefy bicep. The Viking roared, releasing Cas, and backhanded Dean so hard he went flying. He hit the ground with a jarring thud that radiated up his spine and darkened his vision for a few precious seconds. He heard Sam yell in pain, and rapidly blinked to clear his sight. A blur flew through the air, followed by a thud and grunt.

Dean pushed himself up in time to see Cas striking at the Viking again. The angel ducked under a hefty swing and scored a slash across the guy's ribs. The pagan god bellowed with rage, and pivoted sharply, ramming the hilt of his sword into Cas's face. Cas stumbled back, dazed, blood streaming from a cut across his eyebrow. Before he could recover, the Viking clamped a meaty hand around the back of his neck, and flung him head first into the side of the scarp. The rock cracked and loosened silt spilled. Cas crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Dean's heart leaped into his throat. He hesitated a fraction of a second as Sam also regained his feet, and then they attempted to tag team the hulk. But the Viking kicked his foot out, catching Sam in the stomach with a blow that instantly dropped him to his knees with a guttural gasp for air.

Dean stabbed his blade toward the deity's exposed back, but the dude spun and caught his arm mid-air. With one crank, Dean felt his bones snap. A cry tore from his throat as his vision whited out with blazing pain.

The Viking held him by his broken arm, dangling it at an unnatural angle. He leaned in close to Dean's face and snarled. "You're the one who shot Gullinbursti."

Dean was in too much pain to ask what the hell a Gullinbursti was, and what idiot had named it.

The Viking swung him around and tossed him several feet away. He rolled over his busted arm twice, which nearly sent him out of orbit, but he clung desperately to consciousness, sprawled on the ground in a moaning heap. Even through the haze of his own agony, he could still hear the wretched sounds of his brother choking on oxygen. Dean gasped, trying to force himself up. Out of the corner of his vision, a huge blurry figure stomped toward him.

"You will die first," a deep voice rumbled.

There was a metallic click, and then a thunderous bellow that shook the trees.

Dean rolled onto his side and lifted his head, blinking dazedly at the sight that greeted him. Only five feet away, the Viking stood with one leg suddenly caught in a steel bear trap, the ragged jaws clamped viciously all the way up to his thigh. This close, Dean could make out glimpses of sigils engraved in the metal.

So it'd been meant for an angel, but apparently worked on demigods, too. Small miracles.

Gritting his teeth, Dean slowly pushed himself upright, then onto one knee. He swayed, and the pain threatened to take him out, but he refused to let it. Sam and Cas were down for the count, and if Dean didn't do something, they could die.

The Viking had dropped his sword and was currently trying to pry the steel jaws apart with his bare hands. His head was thrown back and eyes squeezed shut in the extraneous effort. This was the only chance Dean was going to get.

He dragged himself forward, broken arm dangling uselessly at his side, and snatched up the Viking's forgotten sword. The angle was awkward with his left hand, but he somehow managed to stagger the last step and plunge the blade through the pagan's chest.

Thor or whoever the crap he was went rigid in shock, eyes and mouth flying open. There was no fanfare like when angels or demons died. Just a gargled gasp, and then he fell forward. Dean let go of the sword and let it fall with him as he toppled, blood from his various wounds spreading across the grass.

Dean stumbled back a step and almost collapsed. His vision was still fuzzy around the edges and the pain in his arm was making him violently nauseous. But he swallowed against it and turned toward Sam, who was curled up on his side, clutching his stomach and moaning.

Dean took a step toward him, but his leg buckled and he hit the ground, jarring his broken arm. Bile surged up in his throat, nearly choking him. Coughing, he managed to crawl forward until he reached his brother.

"Sammy?" He grasped Sam's shoulder and tried to get him to unfurl from his tight position. Sam cried out as Dean lifted the bottom of his shirt to get a look at the damage. He nearly threw up again at the mottled black and purple blossoming across Sam's abdomen. Shit, that was bad. Really bad.

Dean whipped his head up, which made his vision go blurry again. "Cas!" He heard a distant groan, and when he could see again, he spotted the angel pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. "Cas!"

Cas groggily turned his head slowly from side to side, as though searching for the source of Dean's voice. The entire side of his face was painted in blood.

_Shit_.

"Cas," Dean called. "We're over here."

_Please be okay. Please be able to heal Sam_.

Cas turned toward them, and then staggered to his feet. He drunkenly made his way over, collapsing to his knees once he reached them. He stretched out two shaky fingers to Sam's forehead, but before he could make contact, Dean grabbed his wrist.

"Listen to me, you heal the life-threatening stuff and no more. You hear me?" Dean was nearly yelling with intensity, and as much as he wanted Sam to just jump right back up from this, he would not let Cas hurt himself further to do it. They just needed to make sure Sam wouldn't bleed out internally, and the rest they could take their time with.

"Cas, do you understand me?" Dean demanded, fear making him abrasive. He just couldn't stand the thought of losing either of them.

Cas nodded slowly. "I promise," he said gravely, at least sounding lucid.

Dean released his grip and held his breath as Cas touched Sam's forehead, his eyes closing as though in concentration. The healing wasn't instantaneous like normal, but then, Dean had ordered Cas to be selective, so maybe that took more effort. Though hopefully not more energy.

After a moment, Sam started to uncurl from the fetal position, a series of ragged coughs wracking his body. He spat some blood onto the ground.

Dean's heart seized, and he gripped his brother's shoulder with his good arm. "Easy, easy." He looked back at Cas. "How bad is it?"

Cas was looking a shade whiter, a horribly pasty color in comparison to the bright red blood streaming down his face, and Dean was glad he'd forced the angel not to overdo it.

"I healed the internal hemorrhaging," he said, voice fainter too. "His system is still in shock, and there's some bruising…" Cas let out a raspy breath. "I just…need a minute."

"Take as many as you need," Dean said.

Cas's brow furrowed. "You're hurt too."

"We're in no hurry."

Well, they kind of were, except that the pattern was one fight and then a respite before the next one, so they were _probably_ okay for the moment.

Sam moaned. "Ungh, Dean?"

"Yeah, right here." He squeezed his brother's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't move, okay? You'll be fine, but Cas needs to recharge his mojo before he can fix the rest."

Sam frowned at him, then turned his head to find the angel. "Cas? Are you okay?"

The angel had his eyes closed as he braced his palms on the ground, and looked as though he was either trying to keep from throwing up, or mustering his grace so he could start healing. Maybe both, given that blow to the head he'd taken. Speaking of which, Dean wasn't feeling so hot himself. But he refused to say anything that would make Cas feel rushed. Dean was no stranger to pain and could take it.

"Just give him a minute," Dean said when Cas didn't respond.

A minute turned out to be more like five, but when Cas opened his eyes, they were clear of the cloudy film they'd had before, and he straightened without looking as though a light breeze would knock him over. He reached out to touch Sam's forehead again, and Sam let out a relaxed sigh as the rest of his injuries were healed. Cas turned to Dean then, who eyed him skeptically.

"If you need another breather, I'm good for a bit longer." It might have sounded more convincing if he hadn't nearly choked on bile halfway through saying it.

"You might have a concussion," Cas replied, and reached over, pressing his fingers into Dean's skin.

He felt his bones snap back into place with a painful crack, and gasped at the shock of it. Definitely not normal healing. When Cas pulled away, there was a wearied slump in his shoulders again, but at least he didn't look on the verge of collapse.

Sam sat up and took Cas's arm, giving him a worried once-over, particularly the blood still coating his face. Without asking for permission, he reached up to brush some of Cas's matted hair back and get a look at the gash. Sam sucked in a sharp breath. "That's, um…freaky."

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam's throat bobbed and he glanced over. "His skull is fusing back together."

Dean's stomach lurched again, but not from his earlier pain. He swallowed hard. "Okay, well, as long as it _is_ …" Ugh, that was too disgusting to think about.

He climbed to his feet and went back over to the Viking's body. That sword would probably take down some of the bigger heavyweights in this perverted game. Dean leaned down and yanked it out, then wiped the blade clean on the demigod's pants. When he turned back, Sam was helping Cas to stand, and the angel was miraculously free of blood once more.

"So what now?" Sam asked. "Our breadcrumbs are gone."

"Yeah, too bad Crowley's pet couldn't have stepped in back there," Dean muttered, though more out of exhaustion than any real heat.

Cas nodded over his shoulder. "Actually, the hellhound is back."

Dean and Sam both stiffened and looked around, even though it was futile.

"And what's it doing?" Sam asked nervously.

"Waiting."

"Let me guess," Dean scowled. "On us."

Cas shrugged.

Dean took a deep breath, and let it out. "Alright, it's brought us this far." He exchanged grim looks with Sam and Cas. Once again, they didn't have much choice. "Let's go, kids."

* * *

The lodge had been a cacophony of cheers and jeers as Frey attacked the Winchesters with ferocious prowess, and it seemed as though the trio had finally met their match. But then a stunned silence had overtaken the room. Frey's corpse was displayed prominently on the screen, a victim of one of the game's own booby traps. Small mutters began running through the crowd, some expressing their disbelief at the Winchesters' luck, others saying Frey was a bumbling fool just like his boar.

Others, however, began to murmur that the games were fixed.

Crowley sipped his drink slowly as he basked in the increasing malcontent.

"Send in more hellhounds!" someone shouted.

"Send in _all_ the hellhounds!" echoed another.

"Now, now," Coyote responded. "Just calm down, gents."

Crowley set his glass down, rubbing his thumb across his forefinger.

The television monitor suddenly fritzed and went black, drawing everyone's attention.

"Oy, what happened?"

"What kind of game are you pulling here, Coyote?"

The pagan Trickster stormed over toward the AV guys and began gesturing sternly at them as they practically fumbled over themselves in search of a solution. The entire room was becoming more ruffled and agitated, but Crowley merely sat back on his barstool and returned to nursing his drink.

Rowena leaned toward him. "You wouldn't have had anything to do with this, now would you, Fergus?"

He didn't deign to give her an answer.

"Hmm," she hummed, but then she, too, settled back to watch the drama unfold.


	8. Chapter 8

Never in his wildest dreams would Sam have thought that having a hellhound around would make him feel _safe_. Or, well, saf _er_. Because as long as the hellhound was playing guide dog, that meant they probably weren't about to be attacked by more demigods with super strength and huge swords. That had been way too close, and it seemed Coyote was stepping up the ante in terms of what contestants he let into the games. Sam wondered if the Trickster god knew about Crowley's hellhound, though that was probably why it was keeping its distance, so as to remain undetected.

The three of them continued to trudge along with no end in sight. When Sam finally caught a glimpse of a roof through the treetops ahead, his first thought was it was just a hunger-induced hallucination.

"Is that a cabin?" he sputtered.

Dean whipped his head up. "Finally," he grumbled, confirming it was real.

Even if it was abandoned, there was a chance they could find some supplies, maybe even food, but at the very least it was shelter. They'd been walking most of the day, and would have to decide whether to continue or take a break in a relatively secure place and wait for tomorrow before resuming their trek.

As they got closer, they discovered the structure was much larger than a simple cabin.

"Looks like a hunting lodge," Sam said, and he felt a thrill of hope that they'd found help.

Cas paused and looked over his shoulder. "The hellhound is leaving."

Dean shrugged. "This must be grandmother's house."

Sam had to begrudgingly admit that it probably would have taken them a lot longer to find this place without the beast's help.

The three of them strode up to the entrance, and Sam heard noises coming from inside.

Dean pushed ahead of him. "God, I'm starving." He shoved the doors open and plowed inside, only to come to an abrupt stop.

Sam nearly collided with his brother as he, too, pulled up short and stared. The lodge was packed, but before Sam could feel any sense of relief, he noticed some of the patrons were arrayed in strange garb—kinda like the Viking that had attacked them. Some people had yellow or red eyes. Sam whipped his gaze to his right and spotted the fangs of a vampire standing only a few feet away, a glass with viscous red liquid in his hand. The smell of sulfur also tinted the air.

The people nearest the doors fell silent, gaping at them in surprise. The hush spread, and soon the entire place was quiet, everyone staring in bewilderment at the new arrivals.

"You've got to be shittin' me," Dean hissed, gripping the Viking's sword at the ready.

Sam mentally cursed the stupid hellhound, and Crowley. This had been a trap all along.

A loud, measured clap shattered the stupor, followed by another. Coyote made his way through the stunned crowd, slowly and rhythmically clapping an applause.

"Congratulations, gentlemen. I must say, I'm impressed you made it this far."

Sam nervously swept his gaze around the room, taking in the numerous vampires, werewolves, and what were probably pagan deities and demons. He knew there were 'spectators' for this little sideshow, but he hadn't quite imagined it'd be this…popular.

They were so screwed.

"Well," Coyote continued. "You have a choice here, boys. We reset the games and you go back into the mountains, see how much longer you last." His mouth twisted in an eager grin that suggested he favored that option. "…Or we end everything right now and you go to the highest bidder."

Sam stiffened, and he felt Cas move beside him, angel blade coming up in defense. But they were outnumbered, and several goons rushed them at once. The sword was wrested from Dean's hand, his arms yanked behind his back. Sam instinctively tried to throw off the hands grabbing at him, but someone put a knife to Dean's throat and snarled,

"Don't move!"

Sam froze, as did Cas, and both of them were relieved of their weapons before being roughly manhandled to the center of the room. Sam found himself with a knife to his throat as well.

One of the thugs restraining Cas leaned in close to him. "Be a good birdie or your pets lose their tongues."

A muscle in the angel's cheek ticked, but he held himself rigidly still.

Coyote came to stand in front of them. "So, what will it be?"

"The arena!" someone yelled.

"I'll give you 50,000 pounds for the Winchesters!" another voice shouted.

"I want the angel's wings!"

Sam's stomach churned with helplessness and horror. They were going to die. If not now, then soon if they were tossed back out on the mountain. He'd never see his mom again, never get to make the most of their miraculous second chance together. And she'd never know what happened to them. Would the grief drive her as insane as it had John? Would she throw herself fully back into hunting looking for them, looking for vengeance? Sam looked at his brother and saw the same terror in his eyes.

Someone cleared their throat obtrusively then, settling the din. Sam sputtered soundlessly as none other than Crowley stepped forward, hands tucked in his pockets and looking as blasé as ever.

"I have a proposition," he began, sweeping his gaze around the room. "While these games have been quite entertaining, I can't help but wonder if there might be a mechanism of…favoritism, involved."

"Excuse me?" Coyote rejoined.

"Well, how else to explain these buffoons winning every single round?" Crowley paused, apparently for dramatic effect, as his next words were spoken low and pointedly. "Which also happens to mean the house has been winning. Every. Single. Round."

Several patrons started shooting each other subtle glances. Sam swallowed nervously. He really wished he knew what Crowley was up to, and whether it would bite the Winchesters in the ass this time around.

Coyote narrowed his eyes at the demon. "Is this your attempt at saving face since your hellhound ran off like a coward?"

Sam's jaw clenched. Guess that answered one question. Sort of. When Crowley glanced his way, Sam couldn't make heads or tails of the expression on the King of Hell's face.

"On the contrary," Crowley replied. "I'm merely proposing a simple and straightforward sudden death match. With you as the challenger."

Sam flicked a worried look at Dean and Cas. That was so not what he was hoping for. They'd barely survived the fight against the last demigod.

Coyote glowered in response. "These are my games and those are not the rules."

"Your rules haven't produced any winners, except for yourself," Crowley retorted.

"Yeah," someone else piped up. "What's with that?"

"Maybe the games _are_ fixed."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and now it wasn't just the Winchesters and Cas on the other end of malevolent glares.

Coyote's cheeks puffed with rage. "Now see here—"

"I want to see this match," someone roared, eliciting raised howls of agreement.

Sam was suddenly shoved around, and then the crowd was herding them toward the door and outside. He was thrust forward, along with Dean and Cas, into the center of a large circle of spectators forming around them.

"What do we do?" Sam hissed.

Dean didn't respond. Like there was a solution here at all. The three of them rotated, pressing their backs to each other in order to keep all of their angles covered. Across from them, the people parted so Coyote could be ushered into the circle as well. The demigod looked furious, but he was clearly outnumbered. Not that it mattered. The supernatural denizens started chanting for a fight.

"Ah," Crowley interjected, forcing them to quiet. "Before we start, give them their weapons back."

The patrons exchanged confused looks.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, I thought we were proving the games _weren't_ fixed."

There were a few rumbles of uncertainty, but just when Sam thought it was a lost cause, their weapons were tossed into the circle at their feet, even the sword Dean had taken off the Viking. So between that and the two angel blades, they might actually have a shot at getting in a fatal hit…which didn't exactly solve their problem when there were still a few dozen monsters surrounding them.

"You call this a fair fight?" Coyote protested.

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "Right, of course. You need a weapon too. Someone give him something."

Another sword was tossed into the ring where it landed at Coyote's feet. He snatched it up with a scowl. "Three against one?"

Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically. "And here I thought you pagans were supposed to be fierce warriors. Apparently Frey _wasn't_ the most pathetic of you lot."

There were some snickers from the vampires and werewolves, but some dark glowers from those Sam figured were other pagan deities—directed at Coyote. Crowley was obviously goading them all, but evidently they were too stupid or proud to realize it. Sam still didn't like the situation. He gripped the hilt of his angel blade so tightly his knuckles cramped.

Coyote's nostrils flared, but instead of arguing further, he whirled and lunged at the Winchesters without warning. Sam barely got his weapon up defensively, not that he needed to because Cas had leaped in front of him and met Coyote's charge. Their blades crossed with a screech. Sam and Dean stumbled back a few steps to get out of the way as Coyote pulled his blade back and swung again. Cas blocked once more, then spun out and under, slashing at Coyote's thigh. He howled and arced his sword, which caught Cas in the back and knocked him to the ground. Sam's heart nearly stopped, but it seemed the angel had only been hit with the flat of the blade, for there was no blood and he rolled instantly to his feet again.

Coyote snarled as he brandished his weapon against the angel. This time when their blades met, there was a crack of thunder, and lightning forked down from the sky to strike the tip of Coyote's sword. The Trickster god thrust his other palm out, and the lightning zinged from one blade into the other before leaping onto Cas. The angel went down in a torrent of rippling plasma.

"Cas!" Dean shouted.

Coyote whirled toward them and raised his sword again. Dean surged forward to meet it, the Viking sword being a better match in length. The impact rang out with a discordant screech, and Dean grunted under the strain.

Sam lunged with his angel blade, aiming for Coyote's side. The demigod broke away from Dean to avoid the blow, and Sam nearly crashed into his brother instead. Coyote danced back and let out a series of yips. The crowd responded with cheers and jeers.

Sam gripped Dean's elbow and helped him regain his balance, but before they could regroup, Coyote was on them again. Rather than using his blade, he struck out with a knee to Dean's stomach that had him doubling over, and then head-butted Sam. Stars burst across his vision as he staggered back. Coyote grabbed the front of Sam's shirt and flipped him over his shoulder. The air punched from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, and Sam was left gasping to get that precious oxygen back.

Coyote loomed over him. "Game over."

Sam blinked furiously and tried to get up. Coyote raised his sword, but then jerked as a howl ripped from his throat. He stumbled, and Sam saw an angel blade buried to the hilt in Coyote's lower back. Behind the demigod, Cas was still where he'd fallen several feet away, half sitting up and breathing heavily, his angel blade no longer in hand.

Sam flung himself up with as much strength as he could muster, and drove his own blade into Coyote's side. He didn't have enough energy to reach the pagan's heart, but the blow still made Coyote screech in agony and try to stagger away.

Dean came up behind the deity, and with one swing of his sword, chopped off Coyote's head. The body crumpled, and then Dean stabbed the point of the sword into the heart, just for good measure.

Sam's chest was heaving, blood roaring in his ears, but he realized that the crowd had fallen quiet at yet another unexpected victory on the part of the Winchesters and their angel. He flicked a harried glance at Coyote's corpse, which now had two of their weapons stuck in it and out of reach. Only Dean was still armed, and he was sweeping his gaze around frantically for the next attack.

"Well," Crowley spoke up, stepping forward into the circle. "It looks like I win."

Sam flashed the demon a perplexed look, as did several of the bystanders.

"You…?" someone started.

"It was my wager," Crowley explained nonchalantly. "Which means the Winchesters and the angel are now mine."

"Wait just a minute," Dean growled, raising his sword a fraction.

Crowley merely snapped his fingers, and a low growl had several people jumping aside. Sam couldn't see anything, but in the next instant, Cas grunted as something apparently shoved him back flat on the ground. A puff of steamy breath exuded from an invisible mouth inches from Cas's face.

Sam froze and shot his brother a terrified look. So much for the hellhound _helping_ them.

"Hold on there, Crowley," another patron spoke up, coming forward. "You can't just come in here and—"

Crowley lifted his eyes to the sky, and then whipped out an angel blade from his suit jacket, which he stabbed through the guy's throat. It was apparently a demon, because he died in a flash of flickering orange.

"Anyone else want to contest the results?" he asked mildly.

The crowd exchanged questioning looks with each other, perhaps planning to attack all at once.

"Better stay back, lads," a familiar Scottish voice said. Sam's jaw slackened as Rowena stepped to the front of the circle. "My son does have a legitimate claim on the winnings."

Crowley arched a single brow at her, but quickly covered up his hint of surprise and turned back to the patrons. "Seeing as how the original owner of this fine enterprise is now deceased, I'll be acquiring the license for these games as well. Coyote's vision, while inventive, was too narrow. Just imagine the possibilities of an expanded version of these games. Why, there'd even be plenty of stock with souls freshly delivered to Hell."

Dean made a strangled noise in his throat and looked on the verge of saying something to the effect that they weren't just gonna stand by and let that happen, which Crowley merely snorted at softly.

"I'll have to find a new venue, of course. But you'll all be receiving an exclusive invite when the games are up and running again, courtesy of the King of Hell."

Sam held himself tensely as everyone exchanged thoughtful glances. After a moment, the first few people started trickling away, followed by more. Soon, the crowd had dispersed, leaving only Crowley, Rowena, and the hellhound with the Winchesters and Cas.

Sam glanced at the angel, still pinned to the ground, and swallowed hard as he remembered just how deadly hellhound wounds could be.

"Crowley…" Dean said warningly.

"Juliet, love, you can release him now."

There was a chuff and then the crunch of leaves as the hellhound apparently backed up. Cas slowly sat up, warily eyeing the space of air in front of him. Then he cautiously stood and began to sidestep his way back to the Winchesters. Sam got to his feet as well.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "You're _welcome_."

Sam gaped at the demon disbelievingly. He…hadn't actually expected to survive this.

"Yeah, thanks," Dean said gruffly.

Cas canted his head at Crowley. "Why did you help us to begin with?"

"You were merely a means to an end," the demon replied.

"So you could take over some twisted gladiator ring?" Dean asked with a scowl.

"So I could remind everyone who exactly is the King of Hell, who will always _be_ the King of Hell!" Crowley replied, voice rising an octave. He rolled his neck in an apparent attempt to compose himself. "And I think the next special guest for such an event should be a certain archangel recently deposed."

Dean snorted and muttered, "Good luck with that."

Crowley gave him a sardonic look, then turned to Rowena. "Mother, let's chat, shall we?"

The witch arched a simpering brow, but shrugged. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley and her suddenly vanished.

Sam swallowed hard. "Uh, Cas, the hellhound?"

"Gone," he replied.

Sam's shoulders sagged in relief.

Dean was looking around with a scowl on his face. "Can we just find a way to get the hell off this mountain?"

* * *

They found a jeep in a garage next to the main lodge, which the Winchesters hot-wired so they could finally leave the mountains and forest behind and get back to civilization. Dean made several grumbling remarks about his "Baby" being left in the middle of Arkansas and how she'd better still be there when they went to retrieve her.

After having had a car himself, Castiel understood the possessive fondness the elder Winchester had for the Impala. He missed his Continental at times. And now that the truck he'd been using was likely gone, he would have to figure out another means of transportation.

Once they were out of the national park and on the outskirts of a city, Dean pulled out his cell phone and pressed it to his ear.

"Mom? Hey… Oh, yeah, we were on a hunt. No cell service, sorry." Dean cleared his throat. "So, uh, you doing okay?" His features smoothed in obvious relief. "Yeah. No, we'll be a few more days. You have fun…yeah. Bye."

He hung up and let out a heavy breath.

"So nothing went after her?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "Nope. She said she'd be back at the bunker tomorrow."

"Good," Sam said, slumping slightly in his seat as the last worry they'd been holding onto was resolved.

Castiel was also relieved that not only had Mary not gotten caught up in anything while they were gone, but that he'd managed to help the Winchesters get back to her like he'd promised. Which just left the problem of Lucifer, though in truth, Castiel was rather exhausted from this ordeal, and wasn't feeling quite up to resuming his hunt. He needed to, though. He couldn't rest until Lucifer was back in the Cage and no longer a threat to the world—or the Winchesters.

Dean pulled the jeep into a large parking lot for an outdoor shopping mall, saying this was as good a place as any to switch vehicles for something to take them the rest of the way to Arkansas.

"Would you mind procuring a vehicle for me as well?" Castiel asked. While he wasn't eager to steal someone's car, at least it was a crime victims could easily recover from.

Dean stopped abruptly, body language suddenly tense as he stared at Castiel. "What?"

Castiel rolled his shoulder in discomfort. "I don't know how to steal a car." Oh, how far he'd fallen, he thought ruefully, that theft was a skill he needed to develop. "And I have no means of getting around…" He trailed off in confusion at the almost panicked looks the Winchester brothers were giving each other.

Sam cleared his throat. "Cas, we thought you'd come with us."

He frowned. "I need to continue the hunt for Lucifer."

"Not by yourself," Dean said gruffly.

"It's my responsibility—"

"No, it's not," Dean cut him off. "And even if it was, we can still help with it."

Castiel shook his head. "You have other important matters to see to."

"You've always helped us with our problems," Dean pressed. "So we'll help with this. Because that's what family does."

Castiel sighed. "I'm not saying you can't help. But I should be out there scouring for Lucifer's trail."

"You should move into the bunker," Dean blurted.

Castiel blinked. "Why?"

Dean reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, looking exasperated for reasons Castiel couldn't comprehend.

"Because we worry about you," Sam said, mouth pursing. "Because everyone needs a home base, and…and because it's taken us too damn long to ask you," he added quietly.

Castiel's chest constricted at the offer. He'd gotten it once before, but that was a moment he didn't like to think about, because the crushing disappointment that had come soon after had nearly broken him. And he hated how even still, the hope made him ache with longing, especially since the truth was he had been incredibly lonely since leaving the Winchesters after rescuing Sam from the British Woman of Letters.

Castiel shifted his weight. "I'm not sure your mother would be comfortable with that."

"The bunker's big enough for all of us," Sam pointed out.

"Mom just needs to get to know you," Dean said. "And…she's kinda getting used to a lot of things right now. I don't think having an angel as a roommate is gonna be the hardest to adapt to."

Castiel still wavered indecisively. If he moved into the bunker, it would slow down his hunt for Lucifer. But…it wasn't as though he'd been making much headway on his own. And having a 'home base' as Sam called it wasn't the same as abandoning the hunt.

"I can get by on my own," he said, but it didn't come out as convincingly as he'd intended.

"But you don't have to," Sam said. "You shouldn't have to."

"Cas," Dean said, voice sounding rough with emotion. "I get that you think you're expected to leave, because that's- that's what we've always done. And I get that you're probably waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for us to change our minds and kick you out…" He swallowed hard. "I don't- I don't know how to fix… _this_. But I want to try. Please."

Castiel's throat tightened unpleasantly. He never did have the wherewithal to refuse Dean Winchester. "Alright," he said softly. "I will go with you."

_And I will stay_.

Dean looked relieved, and Sam smiled. One of the knots inside Castiel's chest began to unstitch; he always had been a sap for hope.

"First thing we need to do when we get back is decorate your room," Dean said as he started strolling through the lot in search of their next vehicle. "But no Martha Stewart catalogs."

Sam snorted. "You know Mom already has one of those, right?"

Dean paused, floundering for a moment. "Well, uh, she's a girl, so, you know…"

Sam rolled his eyes and turned to Castiel. "You can decorate whatever way you want. And if Dean gives you any trouble, just go to Mom for backup." His lips twitched. "You can even suggest she spruce up Dean's room."

Dean made a strangled sort of sound, followed by a series of threats toward his younger brother.

Castiel barely heard them, as his ears were still ringing with the concept of 'his' room. He had never had a place of his own before, not even in Heaven. He'd had to intrude upon an autistic man's personal paradise for a place of privacy and tranquility, even though Castiel knew it hadn't bothered the soul. But to have a sanctuary that he could retreat to…that would always be there for him…surrounded by… _family_.

Well, for the first time in a very long time, Castiel felt as though he finally belonged somewhere again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, along with more feels of belonging. ^_^ Thanks again to everyone who commented, left kudos, and subscribed! And to those who lurked. ^_^ Next up is a sequel to my story "Past the Point of No Return" which continues that arc as the boys hunt for Pestilence and Cas deals with being human. Hope to see you Monday!


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